Kn-tfv—  # 


UcC- 


STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 


CAUF. 


STORIES 
WITHOUT  TEARS 


BY 

BARRY   PAIN 

• 

AUTHOR  OF  "  ONE  KIND  AND  ANOTHER," 
"STORIES  IN  GREY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


November, 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  GREAT  POSSESSIONS  .....  i 

II.  A  MODEL  MAN 23 

III.  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MIRANDA  ...  38 

IV.  THE  FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    .  49 
V.  THE   'EIGHTY-SEVEN        ....  65 

VI.  CLUBS  AND  HEARTS 73 

VII.  ONE  STONE 81 

VIII.  GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS  ....  87 

IX.  THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST        .        .  96 

X.  CHRISIMISSIMA 115 

XI.  A  Vicious  CIRCLE 129 

XII.  SUNNIBROW          ....'..  133 

XIII.  AUNT    MARTHA 144 

XIV.  A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  AND  A  TRADE  DESIGNER  149 
XV.  THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE  .       '.        .  165 

XVI.  ONE  HOUR  OF  FAME      ....  181 

XVII.  SARA .189 

XVIII.  THE  BLANKING  BUSINESS        .        .        .  193 

XIX.  THE  CHEAT 201 

XX.  THE  DIFFICULT  CASE      ....  207 

XXI.  SOME  IMITATIONS 219 

XXII.  THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP  .        .        .  227 


21320G6 


VI 

CHAPTER 

XXIII. 


CONTENTS 


THE  TENWOOD   WITCH   . 

XXIV.  LOVERS   ON   AN    ISLAND   . 

XXV.  THE  HERO  AND  THE  BURGLAR  . 

MORAL    STORIES 

I.  APPRECIATION 

II.  THE  PHILOSOPHER  .... 

III.  THE  LIFE  OF  A  BUBBLE  . 

IV.  FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

V.  OMNIA  VANITAS       .... 

VI.  THE  LOVE  PHILTER  .... 

VII.  DOING  GOOD 

VIII.  KIND  WORDS 

IX.  THE  WORTHLESS  STONES  . 

X.  GOLD 

XI.  THE  PIG  AND  THE  JACOBY 

XII.  THE  WRONG  ELIXIR  .... 

XIII.  EVOLUTION 

XIV.  BLUE  ROSES 

XV.  THE  STREET  OF  PERIL 

XVI.  THE  CURATE,  THE  BOY,  AND  THE  BEE 

XVII.  GEORGE 

XVIII.  PULL  THE  RIGHT  STRING 

XIX.  Too  MUCH   SELF-HELP  . 

XX.  NOT  IMPERVIOUS  TO  DAMP 


PAGE 
241 

255 
269 


278 
283 
286 
29O 

293 
297 
3OI 
305 
309 
313 
317 
321 

324 
328 

331 

335 
338 
339 
340 


STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 


STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 


i 

GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

MR.  WILFRED  SANDYS,  assistant  master  at 
"Sunniholme,"  had  a  small  sitting-room  as- 
signed to  him  at  the  top  of  the  house.  It  was 
rather  a  dark  and  sullen  little  room,  furnished  princi- 
pally with  what  had  been  left  over.  Against  one  of 
the  walls  stood  a  cottage  piano  in  light  oak,  bearing 
the  name  of  an  unknown  German  maker;  its  inward 
parts  were  so  full  of  wickedness  that  it  had  long  be- 
fore retired  from  active  service.  Piano  was  a  cour- 
tesy title — the  thing  was  a  sideboard  really.  Over 
the  mantelpiece  was  a  gas-bracket.  The  gas  had 
been  cut  off  from  it  in  order  (as  Mr.  Worthy  pointed 
out)  to  avoid  accidents.  The  room  was  illuminated  in 
the  evening  by  a  small  lamp  when  Emma  remembered 
it.  When  Emma  forgot  it,  it  was  idle  to  have  recourse 
to  the  bell-pull,  though  it  was  a  tasteful  bell-pull.  The 
bell  itself  had  been  removed  because  (as  Mr.  Worthy 
explained)  you  cannot  have  the  maid-servants  kept 
for  ever  running  up  and  down  stairs;  this,  I  think, 
cannot  be  gainsaid.  In  fact,  there  was  very  little  in 
the  room  that  really  worked — except  Mr.  Wilfred 
Sandys. 

The  supper-tray  of  Mr.  Wilfred  Sandys  stood  on 
the  piano.     Emma  had  said  when  she  brought  it  up 


2  STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

that  it  was  a  funny  thing  she  had  forgotten  that  old 
lamp  again.  The  room  was  illuminated  at  present  by 
one  candle,  the  property  of  a  gentleman,  the  said  can- 
dle being  affixed  by  and  of  itself  to  the  lid  of  a 
tobacco-tin.  The  repast  which  that  gentleman  had  just 
concluded  had  consisted  of  a  warped  slice  of  cold  mut- 
ton with  blood-vessels,  and,  apparently,  string  in  it; 
of  a  portion  of  American  cheddar,  of  bread,  and  of 
two-thirds  of  a  pint  of  the  school  beer.  The  tray 
being  removed,  writing-materials  and  exercise-books 
were  now  placed  on  the  table — a  kitchen  table  veiled 
by  a  stained  cloth,  with  the  remains  of  chenille  blobs 
round  the  edge  of  it. 

Mr.  Sandys  opened  an  exercise-book  and  observed 
that  Smithson's  first  sentence  was  "dicit  ut  veniret." 
To  a  pedant  this  hardly  seemed  a  satisfactory  render- 
ing of  "he  says  that  he  will  come."  But  in  times  of 
mental  perplexity,  which  were  frequent  with  him, 
Smithson  always  gave  up  hope  and  went  into  the  sub- 
junctive. Wilfred  Sandys  decided  suddenly  that,  after 
all,  he  would  not  correct  those  exercise-books  that 
night;  he  had  done  enough  for  one  day. 

He  took  methodical  steps  for  his  own  comfort.  He 
put  the  coal  (what  there  was  of  it)  on  the  fire.  He 
placed  in  position  the  easy  chair,  with  three  exercise- 
books  to  take  the  place  of  a  missing  castor.  He 
fetched  from  his  bedroom  a  glass  and  water-bottle. 
Then  he  removed  the  lower  front  of  the  ex-piano  and 
took  out  from  the  interior  a  bottle  of  Scotch  whisky — 
good  whisky,  but,  of  course,  a  thing  prohibited. 

A  high  standard  of  virtue,  such  as  that  which  was 
suitably  maintained  by  Mr.  Worthy  in  his  seminary, 
has  many  advantages  too  obvious  for  comment. 
Amongst  others,  it  enables  the  sinner  to  get  a  great 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  3 

deal  of  excitement  out  of  very  little  sin.  Wilfred 
Sandys  never  bought  his  whisky  in  the  town.  There 
were  occasional  Saturdays  when  he  had  the  afternoon 
and  evening  entirely  at  his  disposal;  then  it  was  that 
he  visited  a  distant  hostelry  and  returned  sin-laden  in 
the  dark.  So  far  he  had  been  undetected,  but  it  was 
constantly  occurring  to  him  that  one  night  on  his  re- 
turn he  might  stumble  on  the  stone  stairs,  and  the 
bottle  would  break,  and  its  contents  would  be  spilled; 
Mr.  Worthy  would  arrive  upon  the  scene  at  once,  and 
it  would  be  difficult  to  convince  him  that  this  was 
really  furniture  polish  which  Sandys  had  purchased 
for  the  improvement  of  the  German  ex-piano.  It  is 
probable  that  the  murderer  feels  much  the  same  when 
disposing  of  the  corpse  of  his  victim  as  Sandys  felt 
when  he  was  getting  rid  of  an  empty  bottle.  Once 
Mr.  Worthy  had  stopped  him  on  his  way  down  to  the 
river  with  the  incriminating  bottle  concealed  about  his 
person,  as  the  police  say.  For  a  moment  Sandys  had 
thought  that  all  was  lost,  including  honor.  But  Mr. 
Worthy  had  merely  observed  in  his  fat,  sad  voice  that 
he  wished  Mr.  Sandys  would  abstain  from  wearing 
colored  neckties  on  Sundays,  and  passed  on  unsus- 
pecting. 

I  do  not  wish  to  suggest  any  dark  picture  of  a  secret 
drunkard.  Sandys  was  secret  enough,  because  he  did 
not  wish  to  lose  the  forty-five  pounds,  with  board  and 
lodging,  which  he  received  annually  from  Mr.  Worthy ; 
but  he  was  not  given  to  excess.  He  had  little  fear  that 
he  would  be  caught  in  the  act  of  drinking  that  nightly 
glass  of  whisky  and  water,  for  there  was  a  long  flight 
of  stone  stairs  between  the  proprietor's  study  and  the 
assistant  master's  garret ;  and  Mr.  Worthy  was  a  man 


4  STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

of  plethoric  habit.     When  he  wanted  his  hireling  he 
rang  and  sent  somebody  to  fetch  him. 

To-night  Sandys  lapsed  into  reverie.  Had  it,  then, 
been  worth  while — the  sacrifice  made  by  that  poor 
country  parson  in  order  that  his  son  might  obtain  in 
the  Classical  Tripos  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  in 
the  University  of  Cambridge?  The  end  had  been 
achieved.  Wilfred  Sandys  had  just,  as  it  had  been 
by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  managed  to  secure  that  degree, 
and  he  had  had  incidentally  three  good  years — years 
when  he  made  many  friends,  spent  his  father's  money, 
neglected  his  work,  and  was  strenuous  in  athletic  ex- 
ercises. But  what  was  left  after  the  achievement?  His 
father's  death  had  made  him  the  possessor  of  some 
thirty  pounds  a  year  from  gilt-edged  investments.  He 
had  no  relations  on  his  father's  side  to  help  him,  and 
he  had  nothing  to  expect  from  the  Beltons,  who  had 
resented  the  marriage  of  their  daughter  with  a  poor 
curate,  as  the  father  of  Wilfred  was  at  that  time. 
He  had  suddenly  felt  the  knife  across  the  golden  thread 
of  his  life.  Playtime  was  over,  and  work  was  to  be 
done.  He  was  away  from  the  pleasant  sward,  and 
over  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  There  was  no  estab- 
lished business,  no  waiting  partnership,  to  receive  him 
on  a  bed  of  down.  There  was  good  advice — from  peo- 
ple who  told  him  solemnly  what  every  man  of  his  age 
and  intelligence  knew  already.  There  were  vague 
promises  and  assurances  from  young  college  friends 
who  had  slightly  over-estimated  their  influence  in  the 
world.  The  cold  fact  was  that  he  had  to  look  out  for 
himself.  Suddenly  awakened  out  of  sleep,  he  saw  that 
there  was  more  than  one  profession  in  which  he  might 
succeed  if  he  could  wait.  He  saw  also  that  he  could 
not  possibly  afford  to  wait.  He  must  put  himself  into 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  5 

the  market  as  he  was.  A  clean  character,  a  moderate 
skill  in  tennis  and  cricket,  and  a  third  in  Classical  Hon- 
ors— that  was  what  he  had  to  offer.  The  demand  for 
such  things  is  not  feverish.  It  became  clear  to  him 
that  he  must  be  a  schoolmaster. 

Wilfred  Sandys  had  haunted  the  agents'  office  in 
Sackville  Street.  He  had  had  splendid  testimonials 
printed,  and  had  gradually  come  to  realize  that  most 
people  of  ordinary  decency  have  absolutely  magnifi- 
cent testimonials.  He  had  taken  one  post  which  he 
had  found  impossible.  He  had  afterwards  waited  for 
a  time,  waited  almost  to  the  verge  of  fear  for  his  daily 
bread.  He  had  closed  eagerly  with  the  offer  of  Mr. 
Worthy,  with  whom  he  had  been  for  three  years.  Mr. 
Worthy  printed  a  very  dubious  M.A.  after  his  name 
in  his  prospectus,  but  (with  or  without  academic  dis- 
tinction) he  had  a  fairly  good  connection,  and  his 
heart  was  in  his  business.  It  was  merely  a  business  to 
this  soup-merchant,  but  he  was  no  fool  at  it.  The  mid- 
day dinner  was  not  luxurious,  but  Mr.  Worthy  had 
quite  realized  the  line  beneath  which  it  was  not  safe  to 
go.  He  had  a  sufficient  staff  of  servants,  treated  them 
well,  and  paid  them  well,  since  it  is  often  difficult  to 
get  a  housemaid.  It  is  always  easy  to  get  an  assistant 
master,  but  even  here  he  was  moderately  generous  and 
conscious  of  generosity.  "Many  head  masters,"  he 
had  said  to  Sandys,  "forbid  smoking  to  the  under 
masters.  I  do  not.  Smoke  as  much  as  you  like — ex- 
cept, of  course,  in  the  presence  of  the  boys." 

That  is  a  common  point  of  view;  the  boy  sees  every 
day  in  the  holidays  that  his  father,  his  uncle,  and  his 
elder  brothers  smoke,  but  he  must  not  believe  that  his 
holy  schoolmaster  could  possibly  smoke.  In  this,  as 
possibly  in  some  other  respects,  the  intelligence  of  the 


6  STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

ordinary  boy  is  frequently  underrated  or  misunder- 
stood by  the  gentlemen  who  profess  to  train  that 
intelligence.  For  the  rest,  Sandys  was  a  safe,  con- 
scientious, able  master,  with  the  prestige  of  a  real 
degree.  Mr.  Worthy  fully  recognized  this,  and  did  not 
wish  to  part  with  him.  He  could  have  supplied  his 
place  in  twenty- four  hours,  but  the  new-comer  might 
easily  have  been  less  satisfactory.  He  did  not  give  him 
the  same  consideration  that  he  would  have  given  to 
the  cook,  but  still  he  gave  him  some  consideration;  he 
managed  to  keep  him  just  above  resignation. 

Mr.  Sandys,  as  he  sipped  his  diluted  and  forbidden 
whisky,  could  not  call  himself  conscientious;  but  he 
maintained  that  no  grown  man  of  common  sense 
should  obey  an  absurd  rule.  He  did  not  even  call 
himself  an  able  master.  It  seemed  to  him  that  some- 
how or  other  he  ought  to  have  made  Smithson  under- 
stand more  about  the  Oratio  Obliqua.  And  it  further 
seemed  to  him  that,  summing  up  the  situation,  he  had 
nothing  to  hope  for  in  the  way  of  advancement,  and 
that  he  had  everything  to  fear  in  the  way  of  actual 
loss.  There  is  no  chance  for  the  under  master  in  a 
private  school  to  advance  in  his  profession ;  the  places 
at  the  miserable  top  of  it  are  taken  by  those  who, 
thanks  to  capital  or  connection,  have  started  at  the  top. 
As  time  went  on,  Sandys  knew  that  he  would  become 
less  and  less  valuable  in  a  principal's  eyes,  until  finally 
there  would  be  no  work  for  him  at  all.  He  would  be 
told  on  all  sides  that  a  younger  and  more  active  man 
was  required.  For  that  evil  day  he  ought,  of  course, 
to  make  provision,  but  with  his  present  salary  he  saw 
no  decent  possibility  of  saving  money  at  all.  He 
would  be  compelled  to  break  into  his  capital — the  eight 
hundred  he  had  inherited  from  his  father.  Possibly, 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  7 

he  might  buy  an  annuity  with  it.  It  was  a  wretched 
business. 

He  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  the  sound  of  a 
footstep  on  the  stairs.  It  was  not  the  well-known  step 
of  Mr.  Worthy,  nor  was  it  the  light,  quick  step  of 
a  boy.  Sandys  supposed  that  Mr.  Worthy  wanted  to 
see  him  about  some  school  matter,  and  had  sent  Emma 
to  say  so.  That  being  so,  it  was  not  worth  while  to 
conceal  the  whisky-bottle. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  blaze  of  light  entered.  Be- 
hind the  blaze  of  light  was  a  tall  female  figure. 

"Thanks,  Emma,"  said  Sandys.  "Just  put  it  on  the 
table,  will  you?" 

The  lamp  was  put  down  on  the  table,  and  revealed 
that  this  was  not  Emma.  He  might  have  known,  of 
course,  that  it  was  not  Emma ;  for  though  Emma  fre- 
quently forgot  the  perilous  task  of  bringing  the  lamp 
with  the  supper-tray,  she  would  never  have  made  a 
second  journey  up  the  stairs  to  bring  it  afterwards. 
She  was  by  no  means  the  kind  of  girl  to  overdo  things. 

This,  it  appeared,  was  a  new  housemaid.  She  had 
arrived  that  afternoon,  and,  in  reply  to  Sandys'  ques- 
tion, she  said  that  her  name  was  Rose.  She  was  to 
have  the  care  of  his  rooms  in  future,  because  she  did 
not  mind  the  stairs,  and  Emma  did.  She  spoke  easily, 
without  forwardness  or  embarrassment.  Her  voice 
was  pleasant,  and  her  pronunciation  correct.  In  ap- 
pearance she  was  young,  fresh  and  strong,  graceful  in 
movement.  Her  face  was  well  enough — kind  eyes, 
too  large  a  mouth,  and  much  dark  hair  with  a  smooth 
severity.  Her  figure  was  really  beautiful.  As  she 
spoke,  she  did  things.  She  drew  the  shabby  curtain 
over  the  window.  She  brushed  the  hearth.  She 
picked  up  the  repellent  supper-tray  from  the  piano. 


8  STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Good  night,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her. 

Sandys  had  in  his  time  said  severe  things  about  the 
man  who  regards  a  maid-servant  in  any  other  than 
the  cold  and  official  light,  but  our  circumstances  play 
havoc  with  our  opinions.  His  life  had  become  lonely, 
a  life  with  no  women  in  it.  He  taught  boys  in  his 
working  hours,  and  sometimes  chatted  with  the  other, 
non-resident,  masters  in  his  leisure.  There  were  even 
times  when  that  dubious  Master  of  Arts,  Mr.  Worthy, 
unbent  and  spoke  with  Sandys  of  the  political  situation 
over  a  glass  of  dubious  port.  Sandys  did  not  grumble 
at  such  things,  but  they  left  him  lonely  and  unfulfilled. 
Warm-blooded  youth  and  a  natural  love  of  beauty 
demanded  more.  So  now  it  was  useless  for  the  trained 
and  conventional  side  of  Sandys  to  make  the  chilly 
observation  that  here  was  a  new  housemaid.  The  nat- 
ural man  insisted  on  saying,  "Here  is  an  unusual  and 
delightful  woman — and  I  hope  I  shall  see  more  of 
her." 

A  contrast  with  Emma  suggested  itself.  Emma 
never  did  her  work  properly,  considered  it  as  a  griev- 
ance that  she  had  to  do  any  work  at  all,  and  used  a 
manner  of  speech  which  was  distressing.  Sandys  had 
never  known  Emma  to  draw  the  curtain  or  to  swreep 
the  hearth.  Emma  frequently  forgot  the  lamp,  and 
always  left  the  used,  soiled,  sickening  supper-tray  to 
sit  on  the  ex-piano  until  she  "did"  the  room  in  the 
morning.  The  contrast  was  accentuated  on  the  follow- 
ing evening.  The  supper-tray  did  not  wear  its  cus- 
tomary air  of  a  brutal  attempt  to  make  Wilfred  San- 
dys give  up  feeding  for  the  future.  And  when  Rose 
removed  the  tray  she  placed  on  the  table  a  jug  of 
fresh  water  and  a  clean  glass;  her  quick  eye  had  de- 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  9 

tected  the  conversion  of  the  bedroom  water-bottle  to 
a  sitting-room  use  on  the  previous  evening.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  lamp  gave  more  light,  and  the  nause- 
ous smell  of  paraffin  had  gone  from  it.  Rose  had 
trimmed  the  wick,  and  cleaned  the  lamp  and  the  lamp- 
glass.  Emma  had  limited  herself  to  giving  the  thing 
"more  ile"  when  she  happened  to  remember  it.  When 
in  the  morning  Sandys  lifted  a  book  from  the  ex-piano 
he  was  surprised  not  to  see  its  imprint  in  the  dust; 
examination  showed  that  there  was  no  dust.  In  his 
early  period  he  had  prayed  Emma  to  remove  dust, 
but  she  had  shaken  her  head.  She  had  explained  that 
she  was  always  so  hurried  of  a  morning.  Briefly,  Rose 
was  a  real  woman,  and  Emma  was  a  red-headed  slut. 

A  further  portent  presented  itself  next  day.  Sandys 
picked  up  the  exercise-books  to  place,  as  usual,  under 
the  leg  of  the  easy  chair,  and,  behold,  the  missing  cas- 
tor had  been  replaced  and  the  exercise-books  were  no 
longer  needed. 

"Rose,"  said  Sandys,  "I  see  this  chair  has  been  mend- 
ed at  last.  How  did  you  manage  to  get  that  done?" 

Rose  smiled,  showing  white  teeth.  "I  did  that  my- 
self, sir." 

"Yourself?" 

"Yes;  there's  a  box  of  rubbish  downstairs — old 
curtain-rings  and  picture-hooks  and  such  things,  and  I 
found  the  castor  there.  Then  I  borrowed  the  screw- 
driver that  belongs  to  cook's  sewing-machine,  and  I 
persuaded  the  boot-boy  to  give  me  a  few  screws." 

"That  castor's  been  off  for  the  last  two  years. 
Thank  you  very  much,  Rose.  You're  a  wonderful 
woman." 

"No;  but  I  don't  like  to  see  things  wrong  that  can 


10          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

be  put  right.  It's  the  way  I  feel  about  it.  Good 
night,  sir." 

The  good  night  had  come  rather  abruptly.  She  was 
gone.  She  never  hurried,  but  she  was  always  doing  a 
piece  of  work  or  going  on  to  the  next  piece.  She  was 
willing  to  talk  a  little,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  want  to 
jabber,  as  Emma  always  did.  Sandys  wished  she  had 
stayed  a  few  moments  longer.  He  had  noticed  a  slight 
and  rather  fascinating  play  of  color  in  her  face,  some- 
thing different  from  the  solid  purple  blush  that  Emma 
wore  in  her  moments  of  embarrassment.  There  had 
been  a  quick  flush  when  he  called  her  a  wonderful 
woman,  and  again  before  that  when — yes,  when  she 
said  that  she  had  persuaded  the  boot-boy  to  give  her 
some  screws.  How,  then,  had  she  persuaded  the  boot- 
boy?  That  was  a  dark  thought. 

Her  splendid  efficiency  moved  Sandys  to  see  for  the 
first  time  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  contemptible 
work,  but  that  there  were  many  contemptible  workers. 
Emma  and  many  others  of  her  kind  were  contemptible 
workers — they  worked  reluctantly,  without  intelligent 
interest  in  the  work,  and  were  a  menial  class.  But  the 
work  itself — domestic  work — was  as  fine  as  any  other, 
and  a  woman  who  was  capable  and  had  a  good  will  in 
such  work,  was  far  beyond  the  ridicule  that  hits  the 
inefficient  sisterhood  of  the  craft. 

He  took  an  early  opportunity  of  trying  to  lend  Rose 
books.  He  had  quite  determined  that  she  must  be 
fond  of  reading,  and  was  disappointed  with  her  reply  : 

"No,  thank  you,  sir.  Unless — perhaps — you've  got 
a  book  on  poultry." 

He  misunderstood  her.  "Yes,"  he  said;  "I  think  I 
have  a  book  about  poetry." 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  11 

She  laughed  a  little.  "It  was  poultry  I  said,  sir — 
fowls  and  chickens." 

Mr.  Wilfred  Sandys,  curiously  enough,  had  no  book 
on  poultry.  He  had  imagined  that  she  would  like 
reading :  she  had  seemed  well  educated,  unlike  Emma. 

"But  I  never  read  just  for  the  sake  of  it.  If  there's 
a  book  to  tell  me  something  I  want  to  learn,  that's 
different.  I  like  doing  things  better  than  reading." 

He  tried  a  further  question  as  to  her  education,  but 
she  admitted  no  more  than  a  Board  School  had  pro- 
vided. He  urged  that  she  spoke  like  a  well-educated 
woman. 

"Well,  if  there's  anything  to  do,  I  want  to  do  it 
properly — it's  all  the  same  whether  it's  making  a  bed 
or  just  talking." 

Again  she  gave  him  no  opportunity  to  converse  at 
length  with  her;  her  work  called  her  away.  On  sec- 
ond thoughts  he  decided  that  he  was  not  disappointed 
at  all  in  her  refusal  of  books.  It  was  splendidly  hon- 
est and  unaffected.  A  liking  for  stories  of  love  and 
adventure  is  not  by  any  means  an  invariable  sign  of  a 
mind  of  the  highest  type.  Emma  read  the  feuilleton 
with  regularity,  and  had  no  mind  at  all. 

As  he  handed  her  a  copy  of  "Poultry  for  Profit"  on 
the  following  evening,  he  observed  that  he  found  he 
had  got  such  a  book,  after  all.  He  had  got  it,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  from  the  station  bookstall  that  after- 
noon. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,  sir,"  she  said;  "but  I  did 
not  mean  you  to  buy  the  book  for  me.  I  don't  like 
that." 

But  he  persuaded  her  to  take  it  and  to  keep  it. 
She  had  made  him  so  much  more  comfortable  than  he 
had  been  under  the  reign  of  Emma.  The  book  was  the 


12  STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

merest  trifle — a  mark  of  grateful  recognition  of  her 
services.  And,  by  the  way,  how  did  she  come  to  be 
interested  in  that  subject? 

"We  kept  fowls  at  home,  and  so  I  got  to  know 
something  about  them — but  not  enough.  I  shall 
learn  more  from  the  book  in  odd  minutes.  It  will  be 
useful  to  me  one  day.  I'm  not  always  going  on  with 
my  present  work." 

She  came  back  to  his  room  an  hour  later  with  a 
message:  "Mr.  Worthy  told  me  to  say,  sir,  that  he 
wished  to  see  you  in  his  study  at  once." 

"Very  well,  Rose.    Thanks." 

He  laid  down  his  pipe.  Mr.  Worthy  had  possibly 
invented  a  new  schedule  of  work — a  thing  to  which  he 
was  very  liable.  Whatever  else  may  be  urged  against 
Mr.  Worthy's  attainments,  it  must  be  said  in  fairness 
that  he  could  rule  lines  in  red  ink  as  well  as  any  man 
in  the  kingdom.  The  new  schedule  of  work  as  drawn 
out  by  Mr.  Worthy  was  nearly  as  pretty  as  a  map. 
But  there  was  not  any  schedule  which  required  dis- 
cussion at  the  present  time — it  was  a  more  serious 
matter.  Sandys  recognized  that  as  soon  as  he  entered 
the  study. 

"Sit  down,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Sandys,"  said  Mr. 
Worthy,  in  his  sad,  slow  voice,  and  continued  the 
letter  which  he  was  writing. 

He  was  rather  a  bloated  and  small-eyed  gentleman, 
dressed,  as  was  his  invariable  custom,  in  a  dark  gray 
suit,  with  a  black  bow  necktie.  Silence  was  one  of  the 
weapons  in  his  armory  when  it  was  necessary  to 
quell  the  refractory.  The  small  boy  who  had  been 
guilty  of  any  great  crime  was  brought  into  Mr. 
Worthy's  study,  and  Mr.  Worthy  would  then  proceed 
as  now,  to  the  letter-writing  trick.  Occasionally  he 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  13 

would  look  up  and  glare  steadily  at  the  boy,  and  then 
resume  his  letter  in  silence.  With  every  moment  the 
stare  and  the  silence  grew  more  awful;  sometimes  the 
small  boy  would  be  so  affected  by  it  that  he  would 
begin  to  weep  even  before  the  principal  of  "Sunni- 
holme"  had  opened  his  mouth — a  result  of  which  the 
heroic  Mr.  Worthy  was  proud. 

But  as  Mr.  Wilfred  Sandys  was  not  a  little  boy,  the 
impressive  silence  did  not  impress  him  in  that  way; 
it  merely  seemed  to  him  disgustingly  uncivil  on  the 
part  of  that  boor-pig,  his  employer.  He  noticed  that 
Mr.  Worthy's  black  bow  was  not  quite  straight,  and 
wished  he  would  put  it  straight.  His  eye  strayed  to  the 
lavish  apparatus  of  the  writing-table  (four  kinds  of 
ink  and  rubber  stamps  in  great  variety),  and  upwards 
to  the  engravings,  framed  in  oak,  of  English  cathe- 
drals. What  could  be  more  reassuring  to  a  hesitat- 
ing parent  than  an  engraving  of  a  cathedral? 

"And  now,  Mr.  Sandys,"  said  his  employer,  "I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  I  have  some  unpleasant  matters  to 
speak  of  to  you.  The  other  day  I  picked  up  Penning- 
ton's  exercise-book,  and  wrote  in  it  a  correction  of  one 
of  his  sentences;  I  find  to-day  that  you  have  crossed 
out  my  correction  and  substituted  a  rendering  of  your 
own." 

"Yes,"  said  Sandys  genially,  "it  was  a  bit  awkward. 
You  see,  you'd — er — made  a  slip,  and  I  had  to  give 
the  boy  the  correct  Latin,  but  I  put  it  all  right  for  you, 
I  think.  I  told  Pennington  that  he  must  have  given 
you  the  wrong  English." 

"The  boy  did  not  believe  you.  Quite  by  accident,  I 
overheard  him  say  that  he  did  not  believe  you."  Mr. 
Worthy  went  about  in  rubber-soled  shoes,  and  often 
overheard  things  by  accident  "He  told  the  elder 


14          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Robinson  that  he  was  sure  he  had  given  me  the  right 
English,  that  the  blunder  was  mine,  and  that  I  knew 
no  more  Latin  than — er — his  foot." 

"Sorry,"  said  Sandys.     "Nuisance,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  something  more  than  that.  It  is  either  a 
gross  act  of  insubordination  or  a  stupid  want  of  judg- 
ment, and  in  either  case  I  do  not  see  how  we  are  to  go 
on  together.  I  do  not  profess  to  be  a  classical  scholar, 
but  that  is  not  the  point.  Right  or  wrong,  I  will  not 
be  corrected  by  any  man  that  I  employ.  Least  of  all 
will  I  be  corrected  to  one  of  my  own  pupils.  You  have 
behaved  badly.  And  that  is  not  the  worst !" 

Sandys  perceived  that  he  was  meant  to  ask  what 
the  worst  was.  So  he  carefully  refrained  from  ask- 
ing it. 

"The  worst,"  said  Mr.  Worthy  impressively,  "is  that 
you,  Mr.  Sandys,  are  a  secret  drunkard." 

"That's  a  lie!"  said  Sandys,  with  unpardonable 
abruptness. 

"And  you  would  not  dare  to  address  me  in  that 
way  if  you  were  not  under  the  influence  of  liquor  at 
this  very  moment.  I — er — had  occasion  to  see  if  the 
piano  in  your  sitting-room  could  be  adapted  for  prac- 
tice-work by  the  junior  pupils " 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Sandys.  "But  I'm  not  going  to 
be  spoken  to  in  this  way,  all  the  same."  He  rose 
to  go. 

"You  understand  that  you  leave  at  the  end  of  this 
term.  I  am  giving  you  notice,  sir."  Mr.  Worthy  was 
approaching  apoplexy. 

Mr.  Sandys  was  rude  enough  to  snap  his  fingers. 
He  opened  the  door. 

"No  character,  Mr.  Sandys.  No  testimonials," 
gasped  Mr.  Worthy.  His  fist  struck  the  table. 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  15 

Sandys  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  door.  "If  your 
ignorance  of  Latin  has  been  discovered  here  by  the  lit- 
tle boys,  it  must  naturally  annoy  you,  Mr.  Worthy.  I 
did  my  best  to  screen  you,  anyhow.  But  if  you  let 
your  annoyance  lead  you  into  repeating  to  others  your 
silly  lie  that  I  am  a  secret  drunkard,  you'll  have  some 
pretty  serious  consequences  to  take.  I  leave  at  the  end 
of  the  term,  and  it  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to 
jabber  about  testimonials  when  I  come  and  ask  you 
for  one." 

Mr.  Worthy  was  still  engaged  in  a  breathless  search 
for  words  to  express  himself  when  the  door  closed. 
By  the  time  the  torrential  eloquence  was  ready  there 
was  no  Sandys  there  to  receive  it. 

Sandys  sat  upstairs  in  his  room,  well  satisfied  with 
what  he  had  done  and  with  the  fate  that  had  befallen 
him.  Had  Mr.  Worthy  mildly  reminded  him  that  he 
had  broken  a  regulation,  Sandys  would  have  had  to 
admit  as  much.  In  his  temper,  Mr.  Worthy  had  gone 
far  beyond  that,  had  brought  preposterous  charges, 
and  had  put  himself  in  the  wrong.  Just  for  one  glori- 
ous time  Sandys  had  treated  his  employer  precisely  as 
he  deserved — that  alone  was  worth  much. 

His  mind  was  at  ease  that  it  was  all  over.  No  longer 
would  there  exist  his  ignominious  conspiracy  with  Mr. 
Worthy  to  hide  the  principal's  ignorance  of  subjects 
that  he  professed  to  teach.  No  longer  would  his  free- 
dom be  limited  by  a  stupid  set  of  rules  degrading  to 
a  man  of  his  age.  No  longer  would  he  have  sordid 
anxieties  about  surreptitious  bottles.  No  longer  would 
he  deceive  small  boys  by  upholding  to  them  a  system 
of  morality  which  he  himself  neither  approved  nor 
practised.  No  longer  would  be  have  to  treat  as  his 


16          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

superior  a  man  whom,  frankly,  he  knew  to  be  his 
inferior. 

The  disaster  which  he  had  feared — the  loss  of  his 
post  and  of  his  salary — had  happened  at  last,  and  it  no 
longer  seemed  to  him  a  disaster.  He  would  never  be  a 
schoolmaster  again.  His  ideas  about  work  had 
changed.  He  was  ready  now  to  use  his  hands  and  his 
bodily  strength  as  well  as  his  education  and  intelli- 
gence. He  was  ready  to  run  a  shop,  keep  a  public- 
house,  work  at  poultry-farming,  or  at  gardening. 
Eight  hundred  pounds  of  capital  he  had;  energy  and 
good  will  he  had ;  he  could  find  a  partner  with  the  nec- 
essary knowledge  and  experience  of  whatever  business 
he  decided  to  take  up.  His  friends  would  probably 
talk,  but  he  no  longer  cared  about  that ;  they  had  done 
nothing  for  him,  and  no  regard  for  their  conventions 
should  keep  him  from  a  free  and  honest  life. 

That  night  there  came  suddenly  into  his  mind  an 
idea  which  recurred  during  the  next  few  days — he 
might  possibly  marry  Rose. 

She  might  have  undesirable  relations,  and  she  cer- 
tainly had  not  the  artistic  temperament;  his  friends 
who  heard  that  he  had  married  the  housemaid  would 
consider  that  he  had  definitely  gone  down  the  abyss. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  was  not  proposing  to  marry  her 
relations,  did  not  overvalue  the  artistic  temperament, 
and  no  longer  proposed  for  himself  a  slavery  to  pub- 
lic opinion.  On  the  other  hand,  too,  there  were  her 
kindly  soul,  her  keen  intelligence,  her  healthy  and  beau- 
tiful body.  To  put  aside  ambition,  to  put  aside  all  ac- 
cepted ideas,  and  to  work  happily  in  her  company  at 
any  open-air  employment,  seemed  peaceful  and  desir- 
able. 

Sandys  had  put  aside  his  first  impulse,  which  was 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  17 

to  leave  "Sunniholme"  at  once,  partly  because  he 
thought  this  departure  might  be  what  Mr.  Worthy 
would  like  best  and  partly  because  of  Rose.  As  the 
weeks  went  on  he  got  to  know  her  much  better.  He 
had  always  treated  her  with  respect,  and  he  had  won 
her  confidence.  He  got  glimpses  of  her  home  life. 
Her  father,  who  was  dead,  had  not  made  farming  pay. 
"But  then  that  was  the  wrong  sort  of  farming,"  said 
the  sagacious  Rose.  She  meant  to  go  back  to  the 
country,  and  loved  it  "because  there's  always  so  much 
to  do  there,"  an  opinion  not  usually  endorsed  by  the 
ruralizing  Cockney.  She  had  saved  forty-five  pounds 
already. 

It  was  noticeable,  too,  as  the  weeks  went  on,  that 
Mr.  Worthy's  mental  attitude  towards  secret  drunk- 
ards must  have  undergone  a  considerable  change.  He 
became  wondrous  civil  to  Mr.  Sandys.  There  was 
even  a  suggestion  of  a  glass  of  port  and  a  cigar  in  Mr. 
Worthy's  study  after  a  Sunday  midday  meal;  it  is  to 
the  credit  of  Sandys  that  there  was  nothing  sardonic 
in  his  refusal.  He  was  really  indifferent  to  the  civility 
or  rudeness  of  his  employer.  He  did  his  work  and 
did  it  well,  because  that  was  in  accordance  with  his 
new  view  of  all  work.  But  he  did  not  mean  to  be  a 
schoolmaster  any  more,  and  he  did  definitely  mean  to 
marry  Rose. 

He  did  not  know  what  Rose's  own  feelings  about  it 
might  be.  She  was  not  perhaps  the  woman  for  a  grand 
and  poetical  passion — you  cannot  find  all  beauties  and 
all  utilities  in  one  woman.  Her  easy,  respectful,  sex- 
less friendliness  towards  him  seemed  permanent,  but  of 
course  she  could  never  have  imagined  that  he  would 
marry  her.  She  would  be  taken  utterly  by  surprise 
when  he  told  her.  He  had  eight  hundred  pounds  cap- 


i8          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

ital,  and  Rose  was  practical.  It  ought  to  work  out  all 
right. 

He  read  Thoreau  and  Emerson,  and  utterly  failed 
to  lend  either  book  to  Rose.  His  imagination  was  al- 
ready painting  his  new  life,  in  sympathy  with  nature, 
in  scorn  of  outworn  tradition  and  teaching.  He  would 
make  no  fortune — he  would  work  in  freedom  for  a 
sufficient  and  healthy  livelihood,  and  be  content. 

And  then  the  fortune  that  he  had  refused  to  seek 
came  with  all  the  petulance  and  perversity  of  fortune 
to  look  for  him.  On  a  Sunday  morning  he  received  a 
solicitor's  letter,  acquainting  him  with  the  death  of  his 
uncle,  his  mother's  brother,  Richard  Belton.  Belton 
had  perhaps  been  desirous  to  undo  the  injustice  that 
had  been  done  in  the  previous  generation.  At  any 
rate,  after  a  few  legacies  of  comparatively  little  im- 
portance, he  left  the  remainder  to  his  sister's  son, 
Wilfred  Sandys.  The  solicitor  gave  approximate  fig- 
ures. The  annual  income  of  Mr.  Sandys  in  the  future 
would  be  close  upon  three  thousand  pounds. 

It  was  clear  to  him  in  a  flash  that  part  of  his  scheme 
had  already  gone.  With  the  money  came  the  respon- 
sibilities of  money.  He  would  work  still — but  he 
would  not  fatten  chickens  for  the  London  market,  nor 
arise  early  to  hoe  potatoes.  Nor,  of  course,  could  he 
now  marry — conscience  stopped  him. 

Why  could  he  not  now  marry  Rose  ?  He  had  been 
glad  to  marry  her,  when  he  had  thought  that  her  strong 
practical  sense  and  knowledge  of  country  life  would 
help  him.  If  he  did  not  need  those  now,  was  she  not 
still  as  she  had  always  been,  when  prejudices  were 
stripped  away — an  able,  beautiful  woman,  with  noth- 
ing in  speech  or  manner  to  offend  him,  fitted  to  be  his 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  19 

wife?  To  desert  her,  merely  because  he  had  become 
unexpectedly  rich,  seemed  mean  and  treacherous. 

Once  more — as  he  thought  on  these  things — he  re- 
ceived a  message  that  Mr.  Worthy  wished  to  speak  to 
him.  Mr.  Worthy  plunged  into  the  heart  of  the  mat- 
ter at  once. 

"Some  few  weeks  ago,  Mr.  Sandys,  I  gave  you  no- 
tice. I  wish  to  withdraw  that.  There  was  a  little 
heat  on  both  sides,  I  think.  I  was  much  worried  at 
the  time,  and  perhaps  I  was  hardly  justified  in — er — in 
my  deductions.  Shall  we  let  bygones  be  bygones  ?" 

Here  was  an  opportunity  for  triumph,  yet  Sandys 
could  not  bring  himself  to  take  k.  He  did  not  see  how 
he  could  take  it  without  vulgarity  and  bad  feeling.  So 
he  was  cordial  in  agreement  that  the  past  should  be 
past,  and  he  was  almost  apologetic  in  mentioning  the 
change  in  his  fortunes  of  which  he  had  heard  that 
morning. 

Mr.  Worthy  congratulated  heartily,  and  said — nor 
could  it  have  been  denied — that  this  was  a  change, 
indeed.  He  supposed  Mr.  Sandys  had  already  formed 
his  plans. 

Mr.  Sandys  was  vague  on  the  subject.  He  wanted 
to  work — not  to  live  a  life  of  ease  and  idleness — and 
to  make  a  good  use  of  his  money. 

Mr.  Worthy  heartily  approved.  "There  is  Parlia- 
ment, for  instance,"  he  said — again  quite  undeniable. 
There  were  several  things  which  he  enumerated.  As 
an  after-thought  he  mentioned  that  there  was  "Sunni- 
holme" — now,  it  appeared,  at  a  crisis  in  its  upward 
fortunes.  "Sunniholme"  was  a  semi-detached  house, 
and  with  its  sister,  "St.  Catherine's,"  made  one  perfect 
block.  "St.  Catherine's"  was  now  in  the  market.  Mr. 
Worthy  had  a  fortnight's  option  to  purchase  it  It 


20          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

would  double  the  accommodation,  and  Mr.  Worthy 
had  of  late  been  turning  pupils  away  to  an  extent  that 
was  like  to  break  his  heart. 

Sandys  saw  whither  this  was  drifting,  and  said  he 
should  think  of  it. 

"Do,"  said  Mr.  Worthy.  "There's  the  church-bell. 
There's  no  necessity  for  yo'u  to  attend  service  this 
morning,  Mr.  Sandys.  You  probably  have  letters  to 
write  and  much  to  consider.  In  fact,  you  need  take  no 
duty  to-day.  Just  think  the  thing  over,  you  know. 
And  you  might  drop  in  to  dinner  with  me  to-night  at 
seven,  and  then — well,  then  we  can  see,  we  can  talk  it 
over  comfortably." 

Mr.  Sandys  availed  himself  to  the  full  of  the  per- 
mission given.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  the  solicitors,  and 
then  he  started  off  for  the  day.  He  did  not  mean  to 
make  a  long  walk,  but  just  to  get  out  of  that  atmos- 
phere which  towards  the  end  of  the  term  weighs 
heavily  on  most  schoolmasters.  It  was  a  six-mile  walk 
to  that  little  hostelry  where  the  surreptitious  bottles 
had  been  procured.  He  might  have  gone  by  train,  but 
the  sun  was  bright,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  spring  in 
the  air.  His  thoughts  as  he  walked  were  pleasant 
enough.  He  saw  himself  in  a  masterly  position.  In 
imagination  he  lent  money  to  his  oppressor.  What 
more  exquisite  revenge  could  he  have?  In  imagina- 
tion he  married  Rose.  It  would  be  quite  obvious  that 
he  could  have  done  much  better,  and  that  his  choice 
was  deliberate.  He  would  still  be  taking  his  own  line, 
away  from  the  common  rut  that  has  been  worn  by  the 
feet  of  the  slaves.  Sordid  worries  had  passed  from 
him;  nor  could  he  think  that  his  freedom  had  come 
from  a  mere  fluke.  He  had  come  into  that  which,  in 
common  justice,  he  was  entitled  to  have. 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS  21 

At  the  inn  he  ordered  luncheon  with  some  care, 
consulting  the  landlord,  Mr.  Bowes.  Mr.  Bowes  was 
a  precise  little  man.  He  had  been  a  jockey,  and  at 
present,  unless  you  were  pretty  good,  it  was  expensive 
to  take  him  on  in  his  own  billiard-room.  He  was  by 
nature  a  lifelong  teetotaler,  and  by  conviction,  coupled 
with  trade  interest,  an  ardent  enemy  of  all  teetotalers. 
If  he  recognized  in  Mr.  Sandys  a  somewhat  different 
Mr.  Sandys  from  the  one  he  had  met  previously,  he 
had  too  much  tact  to  indicate  his  notice  of  change. 
Sandys  lunched  well,  and  it  is  possible  that  none  of  his 
subsequent  years  of  freedom  gave  him  quite  so  much 
joy  as  this  first  breath  of  release. 

He  was  standing  in  the  window  chatting  with  Mr. 
Bowes  when  he  saw  a  couple  pass  down  the  pictur- 
esque cobbled  street.  The  man  was  a  big  fellow,  in 
blue  serge,  with  a  very  hard  felt  hat  and  a  very  shrewd 
face.  The  woman,  plainly  dressed  in  black,  was  Rose, 
and  the  expression  of  affectionate  admiration  on  her 
face  was  one  which  Sandys  had  never  seen  before. 

"You  noticed  that  little  lot,"  said  Mr.  Bowes.  "He's 
going  to  be  a  rival  of  mine."  The  tone  of  Mr.  Bowes 
did  not  indicate  any  bitterness. 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Man  of  the  name  of  Tomson.  They're 
starting  one  of  these  new  trust  public-houses  at  Moles- 
ley  Green,  a  mile  away  from  here,  and  he's  to  be  the 
manager.  He's  a  nice  sensible  chap,  I'm  told,  and  his 
girl's  got  no  nonsense  about  her,  either.  I'll  lay  a 
sovereign  she  stops  in  service  right  up  to  the  time  they 
move  in." 

"And  when  will  that  be  ?"  asked  Sandys. 

"Well,  they'll  eat  their  next  Christmas  dinner  there. 
Bless  you,  I  don't  mind.  That  won't  interfere  with 


22          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

me.  There's  room  here  for  all  of  us.  Their  line  of 
business  isn't  exactly  my  line.  It'll  be  a  nice  little 
place.  I  dare  say  she'll  do  something  with  vegetables 
and  chickens,  and  so  on.  That  sort  of  thing  mayn't 
be  a  livelihood,  but  it's  often  a  useful  help." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Sandys  judiciously. 

He  took  the  train  back,  and  dined  pleasantly  with 
Mr.  Worthy  and  his  very  much  older  sister,  Miss 
Worthy.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  Miss  Worthy  in 
her  attitude  of  graciousness,  and  thought  it  putrid. 
None  the  less,  he  took  a  whisky  and  soda  in  Mr. 
Worthy's  study  subsequently,  went  into  the  figures, 
realized  that  there  was  very  little  risk,  and  agreed  to 
lend  him  a  few  hundreds  on  very  easy  terms. 

On  the  following  evening,  when  Rose  brought  in  the 
supper-tray,  many  degrees  above  the  average,  he  told 
her  what  he  had  heard,  and  congratulated  her.  She 
seemed  much  confused,  but  accepted  his  suggestion 
that,  if  she  would  tell  him  when  the  happy  event  took 
place,  he  would  like  to  give  her  a  little  wedding  present. 

The  cart  and  the  smart  little  pony  which  he  gave 
Rose  and  her  husband  proved  very  useful. 

Mr.  Bowes  was  correct  in  his  prophecy.  Rose  and 
her  husband  did  eat  their  next  Christmas  dinner  in  the 
new,  clean,  and  well-appointed  public-house.  Mr. 
Wilfred  Sandys,  B.A.,  tried  to  picture  to  himself  their 
happiness.  He  was  travelling  in  Egypt  at  the  time, 
and  he  was  alone. 


II 

A  MODEL  MAN 


SUMMER  visitors  to  Bunham  on  the  East  Coast 
generally  bought  a  copy  of  "Bunham  and  All 
About  It"  from  Mr.  Parkinson  in  the  High  Street. 
The  price  of  that  excellent  guide-book  is  only  two- 
pence, and  it  contains  a  frontispiece  representing,  in 
rather  a  thin  and  jaded  way,  the  Hall  of  Stalactites. 
A  line  of  letterpress  under  the  illustration  informs  the 
reader  that  this  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world, 
and  requests  him  to  "see  p.  28." 

The  visitor  who  does  "see  p.  28"  will  find  on  that 
page  a  description  of  the  Hall  of  Stalactites.  Therein 
is  enthusiasm  tempered  with  information.  The  author 
(chastely  veiled  by  the  pseudonym  of  "Mermaid,"  but 
generally  believed  to  be  Miss  Parkinson)  contrasts  the 
Hall  of  Stalactites  with  the  Blue  Grotto  of  Capri  and 
also  with  Westminster  Abbey;  and  I  regret  to  say 
that  neither  the  Abbey  nor  the  Grotto  comes  out  of  the 
comparison  at  all  well.  Then  follows  a  scientific  par- 
agraph. He  that  masters  it  will  ever  hereafter  be  able 
to  distinguish  between  a  stalactite  and  a  stalagmite  in 
the  dark  with  one  hand  tied  behind  him,  and  to  babble 
of  calcium  carbonate  in  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy. 
Finally,  Miss  Parkinson  descends  to  common  things 
and  tells  us  that  "the  well-appointed  brakes  of  Messrs. 

23 


24          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Bodger  &  Son  run  twice  daily  during  the  season,"  and 
recommends  us  to  provide  ourselves  with  "a  warm 
wrap  to  counteract  the  chill  inseparable  from  these  vast 
retreats  of  subterranean  mystery." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it,  the  Hall  of  Stalac- 
tites is  Bunham's  trump-card,  and  Bunham  plays  it 
with  energy.  Anything  in  Bunham  which  can  possibly 
exhibit  a  view  of  the  Hall  of  Stalactites  does  exhibit 
it.  It  fills  the  picture  post-cards,  it  crawls  round  china 
mugs,  it  gets  under  paper-weights.  Jobson,  the  jewel- 
ler, sells  at  a  derisory  price  small  charms  "guaranteed 
to  be  made  from  fallen  portions  of  genuine  stalactite." 
One  way  or  another  that  Hall  gets  into  the  local  paper 
every  week;  and  if  it  is  only  a  sonnet,  signed  "Mer- 
maid," it  is  better  than  nothing. 

No  visitor  can  escape  the  Hall  of  Stalactites — the 
force  of  suggestion  is  too  strong.  It  is  doubtful  if  any 
visitor  wishes  to  escape.  There  is  not  very  much  to  do 
at  Bunham.  You  can  sit  on  the  beach,  or  you  can  sit 
on  the  pier,  or  you  can  sit  in  one  of  the  well-appointed 
brakes  of  Messrs.  Bodger  &  Son.  A  young  man  who 
arrived  one  Monday  to  spend  a  bright  holiday  at  sunny 
Bunham  went  to  the  Hall  of  Stalactites  the  very  first 
day.  On  Wednesday  and  Thursday  he  went  again. 
On  Friday  he  went  twice.  On  Saturday  his  body  was 
taken  out  of  the  sea,  and  a  waiter  at  the  Bunham  Rail- 
way Hotel  said  at  the  inquest  that  the  deceased  had 
seemed  depressed. 

Brakes  to  the  Hall  of  Stalactites  always  pulled  up  at 
the  Bull  Inn  for  purposes  of  reference.  The  Bull  Inn 
is  described  by  Miss  Parkinson  as  "a  charming  old- 
world  hostelry."  In  front  of  the  inn  is  the  road;  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road  is  a  patch  of  green,  and  on 
that  patch  every  day  during  the  season  you  might  find 


A  MODEL  MAN  25 

Samuel  Pell  with  his  working  model  of  a  coal  mine. 
Visitors  descended  from  the  brake,  went  to  see  if  the 
interior  of  the  old-world  hostelry  was  still  there,  wiped 
their  mouths,  and  crossed  the  road  to  interview 
Samuel  Pell  and  his  working  model.  If  the  visitors 
had  any  money  left,  Pell  found  means  to  annex  it. 

Samuel  was  an  old  man  of  dignified  appearance. 
He  had  abundance  of  white  hair  and  a  long  white 
beard.  His  speech  was  refined,  and  the  sentiments  that 
he  expressed  were  often  truly  admirable.  He  wore  a 
soft  black  felt  hat,  but  his  remaining  clothes  were 
scarcely  equal  to  it.  The  conjunction  of  a  fisherman's 
blue  jersey  and  a  frock-coat  in  the  last  stage  of  putre- 
faction is  not  happy.  His  aged  and  capacious  lace 
boots  had  no  laces  in  them,  and  were  retained  in  situ 
partly  by  the  adoption  of  a  shuffling  gait  and  partly  by 
personal  magnetism. 

Above  his  exhibit  was  a  card  on  which  Samuel  had 
written  in  capitals : — 

NOT  A  TOY 

NOT  A  PENNY-IN-THE-SLOT  MACHIN 

A  GENUINE  SCIENTIFIC  MODDLE 

MY  OWN  WORK 

The  motive  power  of  the  model  was  supplied  by 
Samuel  himself.  He  turned  a  handle  at  the  back.  It 
was  not  hard  work,  but  he  often  said  he  was  not  fitted 
for  hard  work.  When  he  turned,  various  things  hap- 
pened in  the  model,  which  gave  a  sectional  view  of  a 
coal  mine.  Up  above  wheels  went  round.  A  basket 
was  drawn  up  the  shaft.  At  a  lower  level  a  cardboard 
pony  performed  the  incredible  feat  of  dragging  a  card- 


26          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

board  truck  without  moving  its  legs.  A  group  of  card- 
board miners  became  smitten  with  various  forms  of 
locomotive  disorder.  One  of  them  delivered  blows 
with  his  pick  at  the  rate  of  two  a  second.  The  blows 
made  no  sound,  and  no  coal  fell. 

Sometimes  a  thoughtless  humorist  would  point  out 
to  the  exhibitor  some  of  these  lapses  from  realism. 
Samuel  admitted  them  politely. 

"You're  right  enough,  sir,  and  I  only  wish  I  had  the 
means  to  alter  it.  But  the  materials  alone  would  cost 
me  sixpence,  and  that  is  beyond  my  powers.  By  the 
time  I've  paid  for  the  rent  of  my  pitch  here,  there's 
barely  enough  left  to  buy  me  bread." 

Such  patience  and  politeness  often  met  with  their 
reward. 

For  an  audience  of  women  he  had  a  touching  story 
of  how  he  had  worked  in  the  mines  himself  and  had 
been  dismissed  by  the  company's  manager  because, 
while  saving  another  man's  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own, 
he  had  inadvertently  infringed  the  rule  which  forbids 
miners  to  speak  during  work  hours.  "So  there  I  was, 
ladies,  with  my  arm  and  leg  broken,  thrown  out  of  my 
employment,  and  with  no  hope  for  the  future.  But  I'd 
my  wife  and  family  to  support,  and  I  had  to  do  some- 
thing, and  then  it  was  that  I  first  thought  of  this  model. 
Yes,  ladies,  I  designed  that  and  I  made  it,  just  as  you 
see  it  now,  while  lying  flat  on  my  back  in  bed  in  agony 
and  having  only  my  left  hand  that  I  could  use.  And 
ever  since,  with  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty,  that 
model  has  been  our  means  of  livelihood.  There  are 
kind  hearts  in  the  world  yet,  and — thank  you,  miss ; 
thank  you,  mum  (don't  trouble — I'll  pick  it  up) — and 
Gord  bless  you!" 

If  a  group  of  boys  came  up,  he  drew  down  the  blind 


A  MODEL  MAN  27 

before  the  model.  Asked  what  it  was,  he  changed  the 
subject.  Pressed  further,  he  admitted  that  behind  that 
blind  was  a  representation  of  the  life  underground. 
"It's  not  for  young  boys  to  see.  Might  keep  you  awake 
all  night.  I  should  get  into  trouble  if  I  showed  you  it. 
If  a  policeman  were  to  see  me  exhibiting  these  horrors 
to  the  young,  I  should  be  in  prison  before  nightfall." 
It  was  not  till  the  sum  of  fourpence  had  been  reached 
that  he  would  draw  up  the  blind  and  turn  the  handle. 
The  spectacle  generally  saddened  the  boys.  If  this 
was  really  devilry,  then  they  felt  that  plain  chocolate 
gave  better  value  for  the  money.  And  sometimes  they 
were  quite  rude  to  poor  old  Samuel  Pell.  But  Samuel 
remained,  as  ever,  patient  and  polite. 

The  curate  of  St.  Mark's  said  that  the  character  of 
old  Sammy  Pell  left  much  to  be  desired.  This  was, 
for  the  curate  of  St.  Mark's,  horribly  strong  language ; 
but  it  was  justified. 

The  landlord  of  the  "charming  old-world  hostelry" 
went  into  further  detail  about  Samuel.  "Yes,  every 
morning  about  twelve  Samuel  comes  in  from  Bunham 
with  his  rotten  old  show  on  a  barrow.  There  he  sticks 
on  that  bit  o'  green  opposite,  and  no  more  right  to  the 
pitch  than  the  man  in  the  moon  has.  No  doubt,  if  I 
was  to  open  my  mouth,  I  could  get  him  turned  off  of 
it,  and  I  take  jolly  good  care  not  to  do  it.  As  long  as 
he's  there  he  ain't  in  my  orchard  or  my  fowl-run.  As 
long  as  I  don't  interfere  with  him,  and  don't  forget  to 
stand  him  a  pint  about  once  every  three  weeks,  he 
won't  interfere  with  me.  He  never  touches  anything 
of  mine,  but  he  ain't  so  particular  with  others.  The 
other  day  when  he  was  putting  up  his  show  I  saw 
about  a  dozen  hens'  eggs  in  his  barrow.  'How  did  you 
get  'em,  Sammy?'  I  says.  'Bought  'em,'  says  Sammy. 


28          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Likely!  Might  as  well  have  said  he'd  laid  'em. 
Sneaked  'em  from  somebody's  hen-house,  of  course, 
but  that  was  no  business  of  mine.  He  don't  do  so 
badly,  don't  old  Sammy.  Some  days  I'll  bet  he  takes 
more  money  than  I  do." 

But  the  severest  critic  of  Samuel  Pell  was  Herbert 
Chalk,  the  official  curator  and  guide  of  the  Hall  of 
Stalactites.  The  words,  "Hall  of  Stalactites,"  were 
emblazoned  in  gold  on  his  cap.  Otherwise  Mr.  Chalk 
was  dressed  as  a  decent  gardener.  When  a  visitor  to 
the  mammoth  stalactite  chanced,  as  he  talked  to  its 
curator,  to  mention  that  he  had  seen  on  his  way  there 
a  fine  old  man  with  an  ingenious  model  of  a  coal  mine, 
fury  blazed  in  the  curator's  eyes.  And  when  he  found 
that  the  kindly  visitor  had  given  Samuel  half  a  crown, 
Mr.  Chalk  spake  with  his  tongue. 

"Then  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  but  you've  made  a 
mistake.  If  there  is  a  man  in  Bunham  that  ought  to 
be  put  in  prison  and  kept  there  till  further  orders,  it's 
old  Sammy  Pell.  I  know  his  story.  Made  that  model 
himself,  did  he?  He  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
bought  it  for  one  and  nine  out  of  a  railway  sale  of  un- 
claimed property  twelve  years  ago.  What's  more,  if 
its  works  happen  to  go  wrong  he  can't  even  put  'em 
right  himself,  but  has  to  go  to  Mr.  Jobson,  which  is 
the  watchmaker  in  the  High  Street,  and  get  it  done  for 
him.  And  he  calls  himself  an  old  coal  miner,  does 
Sammy.  Why  doesn't  he  take  and  call  himself  the 
Prince  o'  Wales  at  once?  The  nearest  he's  ever  done 
to  any  mining  has  been  sneaking  lumps  of  coal  out 
of  the  station-yard.  That  he  has  really  done,  and  done 
regular,  and  this  winter  I'm  told  they  mean  to  set  a 
trap  for  him.  Hope  he'll  be  caught,  too.  The  way  he 


A  MODEL  MAN  29 

swindles  visitors  here  is  enough  to  turn  'em  against 
Bunham  altogether." 

Samuel  knew  that  the  curate  disapproved  of  him, 
but  did  not  mind.  "I  suppose,"  he  observed,  "that's 
what  he's  paid  for."  He  knew  that  the  landlord  of 
the  Bull  Inn  had  no  illusions  about  him,  but  he  set 
against  that  the  privileges  that  the  landlord  permitted 
him.  But  when,  as  inevitably  happened,  Samuel 
learned  that  the  curator  of  the  Hall  of  Stalactites  had 
been  saying  things,  he  was  aggrieved. 

"Suppose  I  haven't  got  a  wife  and  family,"  said 
Samuel  to  the  landlord  of  the  Bull  Inn,  "and  suppose  I 
didn't  make  the  old  model  myself,  and  suppose  I  was 
never  in  a  mine.,  and  suppose  I  do  pick  up  a  lump  of 
coal  if  I  find  it  lying  about — which  is  what  any  man  of 
sense  would  do — what  has  all  that  got  to  do  with  Her- 
bert Chalk?  Live  and  let  live  is  my  motto.  I'm  not 
angry  about  it,  but  I'm  going  to  stop  it.  There's  going 
to  be  trouble  between  him  and  me,  and  he's  going  to 
get  stalactites  in  the  neck,  is  Mr.  Herbert  Chalk." 


ii 


"HULLO,  Chalk,"  said  the  last  of  the  group  of  visitors, 
as  he  paid  his  sixpence  and  passed  through  the  turn- 
stile. "You  here  still?" 

"And  why  not,  sir?"  said  Chalk,  as  he  picked  up 
his  wand  of  office  and  exchanged  the  post  of  cash- 
taker  for  that  of  lecturer  and  guide. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  rather  dressy  young  man. 
"It  was  just  something  I  heard — in  at  one  ear  and 
out  of  another." 

Chalk  scowled  slightly.    He  put  less  enthusiasm  than 


30          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

usual  into  his  observations  on  the  mammoth  stalactite. 
He  also  said  that  the  cave  was  first  discovered  in 
eighteen  thousand  and  seven,  and  was  corrected  se- 
verely. 

When  the  visitors  left,  Chalk  fastened  on  to  the 
dressy  young  man.  "I'd  like  just  two  words  with  you, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"Certainly,"  the  young  man  said  uneasily. 

"May  I  ask,  sir,  why  you  thought  I'd  got  the  sack, 
and  who  it  was  that  told  you  ?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  want  to  think  about  that." 

"No,  sir — not  in  the  ordinary  way.  But  hints  of 
this  kind  have  been  coming  up  to  me  lately  at  the  rate 
of  two  or  three  a  day,  and  I'm  putting  the  matter  into 
the  hands  of  my  solicitor.  My  conscience  is  clear 
enough,  and  I  give  my  employers  every  satisfaction, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  be  slandered.  Those  that  take 
away  a  man's  character  should  be  made  to  pay  for  it. 
Of  course,  if  you'd  sooner  not  tell  me  in  confidence, 
then  we  shall  have  to  subpoena  you  as  a  witness  and 
get  it  that  way ;  but  this  is  your  second  season  at  Bun- 
ham,  sir,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  cause  you  any  un- 
pleasantness." 

"Look  here,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  don't  want 
to  give  evidence.  If  I  tell  you  in  confidence  will  you 
keep  me  out  of  it?" 

"I  will,  sir,"  said  Chalk.  "You  may  depend  upon 
it." 

"Well,  it  was  an  old  chap  who  shows  a  model  of  a 
coal  mine  outside  the  Bull  Inn.  His  father  owned  the 
very  mine  of  which  that  is  a  model,  and  the  property 
would  have  come  to  him,  only  he  married  beneath  him, 
and  so  was  disinherited." 


A  MODEL  MAN  31 

"Oh,  this  is  beyond  words!  Beg  pardon,  sir,  and 
what  did  he  say?" 

"He  seemed  well  enough  disposed  towards  you; 
said  it  was  a  thousand  pities,  and  he  did  hope  your 
employers  would  overlook  it  once  more;  said  he'd 
implored  you  to  give  it  up  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  A 
far  better  friend  to  you  than  you  imagine,  I  should 
say." 

"What!  He  dared  to  tell  you  that  I  drank?"  said 
Chalk,  with  his  eyes  popping  out  of  his  head. 

"Never  used  the  word.  He  said  certain  things,  and 
I  put  my  interpretation  on  them.  I  may  be  wrong; 
but  I  think  myself  you'd  better  listen  to  his  advice." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?" 

"Well,  you  get  very  excited." 

"And  who  wouldn't,  with  his  character  at  stake?" 

"And  you  were  all  muddled  up  with  that  bit  you 
had  to  speak  just  now,  though  you  must  have  said  it 
hundreds  of  times.  You  said  thousands  when  you 
meant  hundreds,  and  inches  when  you  meant  feet. 
Sign  off  it,  Chalk— sign  off  it !" 

"I  know  I  made  mistakes,  sir,"  said  Chalk,  "but 
that  was  simply  because  I  was  upset  in  my  feelings. 
Is  a  vagabond  like  that  to  take  away  the  character  of  a 
man  in  the  same  employ  for  ten  years,  and  respected 
by  all  that  know  him  ?  I  can  tell  you  all  about  Sammy 
Pell.  He's  the  disgrace  and  sorrow  of  Bunham,  he  is. 
He  ain't  no  son  of  no  colliery  proprietor,  and  there 
never  was  no  property  neither.  He  ain't  been  dis- 
herited,  and  that's  all  brag.  He  couldn't  have  married 
beneath  him,  because  there's  nothing  lower  than  him- 
self. He's  not  any  class  at  all.  He's  a  thief! — He's- a 
liar!— He's  a " 

"One  moment,"  said  the  dressy  young  man.     "For 


32  STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

a  chap  who  don't  like  slander  you  seem  to  me  to  be 
going  it.  Now,  I'm  not  going  to  mix  myself  up  in 
your  squabbles.  They  don't  matter  to  me,  and  I'm 
here  on  a  holiday;  but  if  you  can  take  a  hint,  you'll 
sign  off — that's  all.  Good  morning." 

Chalk  was  left  with  murder  in  his  soul.  He  was 
given  a  few  days  in  which  to  simmer  down.  But  in 
the  following  week,  almost  the  last  week  of  the  season, 
Samuel  got  to  work  again. 

As  Herbert  Chalk  stood  at  the  receipt  of  custom  at 
the  Hall  of  Stalactites,  an  old  lady  of  severe  counten- 
ance put  down  half  a  crown  to  pay  her  entrance,  and 
waited  for  change. 

"Half  a  crown,  mind!"  she  said  warningly.  "Not 
two  shillings.  Don't  make  any  mistake !" 

The  thing  had  not  yet  dawned  on  Herbert  Chalk. 
"That's  all  right,  mum,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "I  don't 
often  make  any  mistake." 

The  old  lady  glared  at  him.  "Are  you  the  man 
Chalk?"  she  asked. 

"That's  my  name,"  said  Herbert,  still  genial. 

"Then  I  have  a  message  for  you."  She  showed  tact. 
She  waited  until  she  could  get  Chalk  away  from  the 
crowd  before  she  delivered  her  message.  "Mind  you," 
she  said,  "I  don't  want  to  express  any  opinion  one 
way  or  the  other.  The  vicar  may  be  right  or  he  may 
be  wrong.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  misplaced  gener- 
osity, and  I  can  generally  tell  by  the  type  of  a  man's 
face " 

Herbert  Chalk  was  rude  enough  to  interrupt.  "I 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  said.  "If 
you've  got  a  message  for  me,  let's  have  it." 

But  the  old  lady  was  composed  of  whalebone  and 


A  MODEL  MAN  33 

pure  rubber,  quite  indestructible,  and  specially  built 
for  endurance  over  the  conversational  course. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  and 
I  hope  it  may  be  a  warning  to  you.  It  was  an  old  man 
with  a  long  white  beard  asked  me  to  deliver  the  mes- 
sage. Was  coming  with  it  himself  but  his  feet  were 
painful,  and,  being  active  still,  I  was  glad  to  oblige. 
'Tell  him,'  he  says,  'that  if  he  can  get  his  employers  to 
give  him  another  chance,  the  vicar  will  make  up  the 
missing  money,  believing  that  he  yielded  to  sudden 
temptation  and  will  be  more  honest  in  the  future.' 
And,  as  I  said  before,  if " 

Chalk  had  whipped  out  his  note-book.  His  air  was 
that  of  deadly  and  terrific  composure.  "That's 
enough,"  he  said ;  "I'll  take  your  name  and  address,  if 
you  please,  madam.  And  if  somebody  don't  get  seven 
years'  penal  for  this,  I'm  a  Dutchman.  I  go  straight 
to  my  lawyer's  from  here."  He  touched  the  point  of 
his  pencil  with  his  tongue.  "Now,  please,  madam  ?" 

"What?"  said  the  old  lady.  "My  name  and  ad- 
dress? The  idea  of  such  a  thing!  Why,  I'd  as  soon 
trust  you  with  my  money.  I  do  a  kindness,  and  then 
you  talk  to  me  like  that.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed' of 
yourself." 

She  left  him — speechless,  defeated,  despairing. 

And  while  that  fairly  good  man,  the  custodian  of 
the  Hall  of  Stalactites,  suffered  acutely  from  unde- 
served imputations,  Samuel  Pell  on  the  bit  of  green 
opposite  the  Bull  Inn  was  enjoying  himself  immensely. 
He  was  exhibiting  his  scientific  model  to  a  group  of 
romantically  minded  ladies.  Pointing  to  one  of  the 
moth-eaten  figures,  at  present  in  a  state  of  extreme  but 
ataxic  activity,  he  declared,  "And  that,  ladies,  is  an 
exact  representation  of  the  miner  whose  life  I  saved!" 


34          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 


in 

BUT  Samuel  Pell  had  not  yet  finished  with  his  enemy. 
Next  week  Chalk's  domestic  peace  was  threatened. 

Mrs.  Chalk,  usually  a  smiling  and  cheerful  woman, 
became  morose.  She  asked  her  husband  if  he  was 
particularly  partial  to  the  name  of  Bella.  She  won- 
dered why,  if  he  was  so  fond  of  yellow  hair,  he 
married  a  woman  with  brown.  She  said  that  when  a 
married  man  of  fifty  went  about  with  a  girl,  it  was 
ridiculous  as  well  as  wicked.  She  added  that  a  silly 
young  hussy  who  came  up  to  the  Hall  of  Stalactites 
every  day,  and  sometimes  two  or  three  times  a  day, 
would  be  likely  to  get  a  broomstick  across  her  face  to 
give  her  something  else  to  think  about. 

It  took  Herbert  Chalk  two  days  of  hard  and  patient 
talking  to  convince  his  wife  that  the  girl  Bella,  with 
the  yellow  hair  and' the  unfortunate  devotion  to  him- 
self, was  entirely  mythical,  had  no  real  existence,  and 
was  invented  by  that  bad  man,  Sammy  Pell. 

"He'll  be  the  ruin  of  me,  that  chap  will,"  said  Chalk 
dejectedly. 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Chalk.  "I  dare  say  if  you'd  let 
Sammy  alone,  he'd  have  let  you  alone." 

On  the  following  Sunday  Herbert  Chalk,  taking  his 
nasty-tempered  terrier  for  a  run  on  the  cliffs,  espied 
Samuel  taking  his  ease  on  one  of  the  public  seats. 
The  dog  also  espied  him,  and  at  a  distance  of  fifty 
yards  made  a  rush  for  him,  barking  furiously.  Chalk 
might  have  called  his  dog  off,  but  did  not. 

Samuel  appeared  to  move  slowly,  but  he  was  quick 
enough  for  his  purpose.  His  boot,  being  unimpeded 
by  laces,  came  off  very  easily.  When  the  dog  was  at  a 


A  MODEL  MAN  35 

distance  of  ten  yards  that  boot  flew  through  the  air, 
smote  the  dog  violently  amidships,  and  knocked  him 
over.  The  dog  gave  it  up,  and  returned  to  his  master, 
complaining  bitterly. 

"I've  got  another  boot  if  you  care  to  apply  for  it," 
called  Samuel. 

But  Herbert  Chalk  pretended  to  be  unconscious  of 
the  incident,  and  walked  with  dignity  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

At  the  close  of  the  season  Samuel  Pell  left  Bunham 
for  his  holiday.  Nobody  knew  where  he  spent  his 
holiday.  "South  of  France,  likely,"  said  the 
landlord  of  the  Bull  Inn.  "He's  made  enough  money 
for  it  this  season.  Wicked,  I  call  it." 

He  returned  to  Bunham  in  December,  and  appar- 
ently still  had  money  left  to  live  upon.  He  never  at- 
tempt;ed  to  do  any  work.  He  spent  a  great  part  of  the 
day  in  the  public  reading-room.  But  if  he  stayed  at 
home — one  room  over  a  small  news-agent's  shop — he 
always  had  a  bright  and  cheerful  fire  there.  The  sta- 
tion-master said,  when  he  met  Samuel  in  the  street, 
that  he'd  nab  him  at  it  yet.  "I  don't  know  to  what 
you  refer,"  said  Samuel  politely. 

One  day,  as  Samuel  sat  in  the  reading-room,  Her- 
bert Chalk  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  should  like  a  word  with  you,"  said  Chalk,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  for  the  rule  of  the  reading-room  pre- 
scribed silence. 

"Would  you?"  said  Samuel  doubtfully. 

"Over  at  'The  Railway  Arms,'  "  Chalk  added. 

"With  pleasure,  Mr.  Chalk,"  said  Samuel,  and  fol- 
lowed him  out. 

At  "The  Railway  Arms,"  the  question  being  put  to 


36          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

him,  Samuel  said  a  glass  of  Scotch  ale  was  what  the 
weather  seemed  to  indicate. 

"The  fact  is,  Sammy,"  said  Chalk,  "that  you  and 
me  didn't  quite  hit  it  together  last  season.  I  dare  say 
I  was  in  the  wrong." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Samuel. 

"Well,  here's  Christmas  upon  us,  and  I'm  ready  to 
bury  the  hatchet." 

"I  should  bury  it  in  that  dog  of  yours,  if  I  were 
you." 

"I  got  rid  of  him.  He  took  to  running  and  snap- 
ping at  everybody,  and  I  couldn't  stick  it.  He  might 
have  got  me  into  trouble." 

"He  pretty  nearly  did,"  said  Samuel.  "But  so  far 
as  my  old  memory  serves  me,  you  were  there  already." 

"Let's  forget  it,"  said  Chalk.  "Christmas  is  com- 
ing. Peace  and  good  will.  Next  season  I  hope  to  be 
paying  you  a  bob  a  week  regular,  besides  putting  extra 
custom  in  your  way." 

"Peace  and  good  will,"  said  Samuel  reflectively. 
"Beautiful  words!  And  that  bob  a  week?  How  do 
you  mean?" 

Herbert  Chalk  explained.  In  the  following  season  a 
new  line  of  brakes  was  to  run,  bringing  up  visitors 
from  Cowslade  to  the  Hall  of  Stalactites.  This  being 
so,  the  custodian  and  his  wife  were  going  to  enter  upon 
the  provision  and  sale  of  teas  and  mineral  waters. 

"And,"  said  Chalk,  "if  you  told  visitors  where  they 
could  get  a  good  cup  of  tea,  with  nice  fresh  fruit,  and 
everything  clean  and  pleasant,  then  I'd  tell  the  Cow- 
slade lot  that  they  oughtn't  to  go  back  without  stepping 
down  to  the  Bull  Inn  green,  to  see  the  wonderful 
model  and  the  man  that  saved  forty  lives.  And  I'd 
pay  you  a  bob  a  week  for  advertising  us." 


A  MODEL  MAN  37 

"A  child  could  do  anything  with  me  at  Christmas- 
time," said  Samuel.  "I  ought  to  haggle,  but  I  can't 
bring  myself  to  it.  I'd  sooner  be  too  open-handed  even 
if  I  lost  money  by  it.  We'll  call  it  a  bargain." 

They  shook  hands  on  it. 

"And  I  think  we  ought  to  celebrate  it,"  said  Samuel. 
"We'll  have  just  one  more.  Let's  see,  did  I  pay  the 
last?" 

"Oh,  it's  my  turn,  Sammy,"  said  Chalk.  And  he 
was  allowed  to  take  it. 


Ill 

THE    MARRIAGE    OF   MIRANDA 


IF  we  may  trust  dark  and  oriental  stories,  the  bar- 
baric king  had  strange  ways  of  disposing  of  the 
hand  of  the  lovely  Princess.  He  would  set  the  three 
suitors — there  were  always  three — a  difficult  problem, 
and  the  Princess  went  to  the  man  who  solved  it.  Or 
he  would  offer  her  to  the  suitor  who  in  the  space  of 
certain  moons  produced  the  highest  achievement.  And 
he  never  consulted  the  lovely  Princess.  Horrible! 

In  this  Christian,  civilized,  western  country,  things 
are  far  different.  The  lovely  daughter  no  longer  goes 
to  the  highest  achievement,  but  to  the  highest  bid. 
Mamma  has  seen  that  romance  is  here  to-day  and  gone 
to-morrow,  but  that  really  steady  incomes  are  steady. 
And  the  daughter  is  always  consulted.  At  any  rate, 
mamma  explains  to  her  more  intimate  friends  that  she 
has  at  last  been  able  to  make  the  dear  child  see  the 
thing  in  the  right  light.  Yes,  nowadays  the  race  is  to 
the  swift,  unless  the  betting  interferes. 

The  case,  therefore,  of  Eugene  Parslow  and  his 
daughter  Miranda  is  a  little  extraordinary,  for  Mr. 
Parslow  showed  himself  a  reactionary  to  barbaric 
methods.  He  simply  put  his  foot  down  and  said — but 
we  shall  come  to  that  in  time. 

38 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MIRANDA       39 

Parslow — you  fancy  somehow  that  you  know  that 
name.  You  must  have  seen  it  somewhere.  And  you 
are  quite  right — you  have  seen  it  on  the  big  posters. 
A  maiden  with  a  red  kerchief  and  a  happy  smile  plucks 
large  apricots  in  a  glorious  garden ;  and  underneath  is 
the  legend  Parslow's  Pure  Preserves.  The  picture 
should  be  taken  freely  and  symbolically;  in  reality,  the 
people  who  work  for  Parslow  do  not  smile  much ;  Par- 
slow  does  not  leave  them  much  to  smile  about.  Ex- 
ceptions must  be  made  in  the  case  of  the  manager  at 
the  factory,  and  of  Davidson,  who  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  business  and  was  Parslow's  confidential  secre- 
tary. So  good  a  manager  would  have  been  difficult  to 
replace.  So  specially  useful  a  secretary  as  Davidson 
was  too  valuable  to  lose.  Why,  Parslow  paid  David- 
son two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  with  board  and  lodg- 
ing, and  gave  him  a  fortnight's  holiday  in  the  summer 
and  a  week  at  Christmas.  As  he  sometimes  told  Da- 
vidson, he  could  have  got  a  man  for  half  that  sum. 

Davidson  was  specially  useful,  because  he  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  secretary.  Parslow  had  not  always 
been  a  man  of  great  wealth.  He  was  a  self-made  man, 
and  he  knew  all  about  preserves  long  before  he  could 
spell  the  word  parallel.  He  had  made  enough  money 
to  entertain  society  before  he  had  learned  enough  to 
avoid  being  ridiculous.  Davidson  took  him  in  hand 
tenderly  and  tactfully.  He  taught  him  to  speak  Eng- 
lish. He  taught  him  even  a  little  hotel  French,  and 
there  came  one  proud  day  when  Parslow,  in  the  heart 
of  Paris,  commanded  hot  water  in  the  native  tongue, 
and  was  at  once  understood.  Davidson  it  was  who 
taught  Parslow  how  to  dress  himself,  and  how  to  be- 
have to  the  butler.  Davidson,  in  fact,  taught  Parslow 
how  to  live,  and  Parslow  was  very  grateful,  and  did 


40          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

not  wish  it  to  be  mentioned ;  but  Davidson  understood 
the  uses  of  silence. 

Davidson  was  a  clean-shaven,  good-looking  man  of 
thirty,  and  had  seen  more  of  the  world  at  thirty  than 
Parslow  had  at  forty-five.  But  Parslow's  knowledge 
of  jam  had  brought  him  much  money,  and  Davidson's 
knowledge  of  the  world,  with  a  great  university  de- 
gree as  well,  had  brought  him  no  more  than  his  re- 
muneration, as  already  stated,  as  Parslow's  private  sec- 
retary. The  thing  that  annoyed  Parslow  most  was 
that  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  certain  amount  of  re- 
spect for  Davidson,  and  that  this  respect  was  liable  on 
certain  special  occasions  to  become  fear  and  admira- 
tion. It  was  when  he  was  under  the  influence  of  this 
annoyance  that  he  would  tell  Davidson  that  splendid 
men  could  be  got  for  a  hundred  a  year,  which  was  un- 
kind, or  would  find  fault  with  Davidson's  work,  which 
was  unwise.  Apart  from  that,  he  trusted  Davidson 
more  than  any  other  man  in  the  world,  including  the 
factory  manager. 

One  morning  Parslow  came  into  the  study,  where 
his  secretary  was  already  seated,  with  letters  in  his 
hand,  and  an  expression  of  great  solemnity. 

"Davidson,"  he  said,  as  he  dropped  into  his  chair,  "a 
most  extraordinary  thing  has  happened." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Parslow?" 

"It's  about  Miranda.    Now,  she's  young." 

"Very  young." 

"Bless  my  soul,  it  seems  only  the  other  day  she  went 
to  her  first  dance.  And  here" — he  tapped  the  letters 
with  a  fat  finger — "I  have  by  one  post  received  no  less 
than  three  proposals  for  her  hand." 

"Addressed  to  Miss  Parslow?" 

"No,  sir.    No,  Mr.  Davidson.    They  have  shown  a 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MIRANDA       41 

little  more  decency  than  that.  They  have  written  in 
the  first  instance  to  me — as  is,  I  believe,  the  correct 
thing.  I  wish  my  poor  dear  wife  could  have  been  alive 
now,  to  have  talked  it  over  with  me.  As  it  is,  I  sup- 
pose I  must  decide  for  myself.  In  the  first  instance, 
decision  is  easy.  It's  a  proposal  from  Halliday." 

"A  decent  chap,  and  a  good  sportsman." 

"But,  Mr.  Davidson,  that's  all  beside  the  point. 
The  man's  a  schoolmaster  with  a  beggarly  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  a  year,  and  hopes  to  be  able  to  make 
more.  Why,  the  thing's  perfectly  frantic.  I  couldn't 
hear  of  it  for  a  moment.  Now  I  want  you  to  type  a 
letter  to  him,  telling  him  not  to  be  silly,  and  saying  in 
a  civil  way  that  I  forbid  him  the  house;  and  I'll  sign 
it." 

"I  will  write  a  letter,  Mr.  Parslow,  but  you  must 
copy  the  whole  of  it  in  your  own  hand." 

"Why  the  devil  should  I  ?  What  are  you  there  for 
if  it's  not  to " 

"Certainly,"  said  Davidson.  "If  you  wish  to  wound 
the  man's  feelings,  and  to  make  yourself  ridiculous, 
that's  for  you  to  decide." 

"What  ?  You  mean  it's  not  etiquette  ?  Well,  have  it 
your  own  way,  then.  You  may  know  more  about  that 
than  I  do — my  time's  been  given  to  more  important 
matters.  As  for  the  other  proposals,  I  should  answer 
them  in  my  own  handwriting  in  any  case,  for" — and 
here  Mr.  Parslow's  voice  became  very  impressive — 
"they  are  both  of  them  baronets." 

"Really?    Funny  coincidence." 

"And  the  coincidence  doesn't  end  there.  They  are 
both  of  the  same  age,  and  both  have  about  the  same 
means — no  great  amount,  but,  with  what  I  shall  settle 
on  Miranda,  ample.  One  is  Sir  George  Firbrook,  and 


42          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

the  other  Sir  Andrew  Tangamere.  Do  you  by  any 
chance  know  anything  of  them?" 

"Yes,  the  coincidence  goes  further;  I  know  both 
men — knew  one  of  them  at  Oxford,  and  have  met  the 
other  at  the  club  frequently.  They  are  both  good- 
looking  young  fellows,  and  they're  gentlemen." 

"Gentlemen?  Why,  they're  more  than  that. 
They're  baronets.  Haven't  I  been  telling  you  ?  Well, 
now,  Davidson,  I'm  no  snob,  but  I  confess  to  a  real 
admiration  for  old  families.  I  should  like  Miranda 
to  marry  into  an  old  family.  The  older  baronetcy 
must  have  the  first  chance,  and  I  want  you  to  dig 
around  and  find  out  which  is  the  older." 

Davidson  smiled.  "I  think  I  can  tell  you  all  about 
that  right  away.  Neither  is  what  would  be  called  an 
old  family.  The  first  Firbrook  baronet  was  a  surgeon, 
and  the  first  Tangamere  baronet  was  an  engineer. 
Both  were  Victorian  creations,  and  in  each  case  it  is 
the  second  baronet  who  addressed  you." 

"Ah!"  Mr.  Parslow  seemed  slightly  disappointed. 
"Then  it's  not  quite  so  good  as  I  thought.  However, 
in  either  case,  Miranda  will  be  her  ladyship.  There  is 
still  that.  I  suppose  it  would  be  correct  of  me  to 
speak  of  her  as  her  ladyship." 

"Yes — if  you  were  speaking  to  servants." 

"I  see.  Thank  you,  Davidson.  Well,  now,  what 
is  to  be  done?  There  seems  to  be  no  reason  why  I 
should  pick  one  of  them  more  than  the  other.  Mi- 
randa's too  young  to  make  an  unguided  choice.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  that  she'd  take  up  with  a  beggarly 
schoolmaster,  like  Halliday.  She's  too  sensible  for 
that.  But  she'll  do  better  under  my  direction  in  this 
matter,  as  she  has  always  been  in  others.  Only — 
how  am  I  to  direct?" 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MIRANDA       43 

"Let  me  think  now,"  said  Davidson.  He  paced 
slowly  to  the  window  and  back,  sat  down  again,  and 
lit  a  cigarette.  "There  is  an  idea  which  has  probably 
occurred  to  you.  I  might  draft  a  letter  to  your  two 
baronets,  telling  them  of  the  coincidence,  and  frankly 
facing  the  situation.  You  can  plead  that  Miss  Parslow 
is  still  very  young,  and  that  a  year  is  not  long  to  wait. 
It  would  be  more  dignified  on  your  part  than  too 
ready  an  acceptance.  In  a  year  you  would  be  able  to 
see  which  was  the  worthier  and  better  man.  Let 
them  see  what  they  can  accomplish  in  a  year,  and 
write  to  you  at  the  end  of  it." 

Parslow  brought  his  hand  down  on  the  table.  "Ex- 
cellent! I  will.  I  had  thought  of  something  of  this 
kind.  It's  the  best  idea  I've  had  for  years.  And  in 
the  meantime  I  shall  put  it  to  their  honor  that  they 
make  no  attempt  to  see  Miranda  at  all.  One  must 
have  no  advantage  over  the  other.  All  I  shall  say  to 
Miranda  will  be  that  in  a  year's  time  I  shall  be  rinding 
a  husband  for  her.  If  you  wouldn't  mind,  Davidson, 
you  might  begin  on  these  letters  at  once.  Capital  idea 
of  mine!  Capital!" 

Parslow  walked  over  to  the  window,  looked  out, 
and  backed  away  again.  "Well,  I'm  shot!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "There's  that  idiot,  Halliday,  walking  up 
and  down  outside,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  see  Miranda. 
Davidson,  you  must  let  him  understand  that  I  won't 
have  any  nonsense  of  that  kind — and,  I  say,  I  shouldn't 
be  too  civil,  you  know.  Two  hundred  and  fifty? 
Oh,  tut,  tut,  tut!" 

Parslow  then  put  his  thumbs  in  the  arm-holes  of  his 
waistcoat  and  posed  as  his  own  statue. 


44          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 


ii 

THE  two  most  tactful  and  neatly  phrased  letters  that 
our  celebrated  post  office  ever  carried  in  one  day 
were  the  letters  to  the  two  baronets,  in  the  handwriting 
of  Mr.  Parslow  and  the  composition  of  his  secretary. 
Their  replies  were  speedy,  satisfactory,  and  modest. 

"Very  good  style  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Parslow  as  he 
spread  the  letters  out  before  him.  "Both  express  a 
sense  that  they  have  been  lazy  so  far,  and  are  diffident 
about  their  abilities,  but  they  feel  that  they  ought  to 
do  something  in  the  world,  and  will  try  their  utmost 
during  the  ensuing  year;  and,  above  all,  they  address 
me  in  a  way  that  I  like  to  be  addressed.  That's  all 
very  promising.  Now  we  can  simply  put  the  subject 
aside  for  a  year,  when  I  shall  hear  from  them  again." 

"And  about  Halliday?" 

"Don't  speak  to  me  of  him.  He's  simply  a  cad — 
that  is,  a  man  who  can't  take  no  for  an  answer.  Here's 
his  letter — about  six  pages  of  high-falutin  rubbish.  I 
haven't  read  half  of  it,  and  shan't  either.  My  servants 
have  got  their  instructions,  and  if  I  catch  him  hanging 
about  in  the  street  here,  the  police  will  get  their 
instructions  as  well — if  I  don't  take  the  law  and  a 
thick  stick  into  my  own  hands."  He  puffed  con- 
siderably; he  was  getting  heated. 

"But  possibly  Halliday  may  meet  Miss  Parslow  at 
other  houses." 

"I  shall  be  there  too — or  my  sister,  Mrs.  Mawby — 
and  we  shall  know  what  to  do.  It  won't  be  for  long 
anyhow,  because  he'll  have  to  go  back  to  his  beastly 
school.  Now  then,  for  a  year  this  subject  is  entirely 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MIRANDA       45 

closed.  We'd  like  you  to  dine  with  us  to-night.  Can 
you?" 

Notwithstanding  the  closure,  Davidson  thought  it 
worth  while  to  mention  a  few  weeks  later,  that  he 
heard  at  the  club  that  Sir  Andrew  had  left  England, 
and  would  be  away  for  some  time. 

"Know  where  he's  gone?" 

"Cairo,  I'm  told,  in  the  first  instance." 

"Ah,  that's  Egypt,"  said  Mr.  Parslow.  Davidson 
resisted  with  success  a  temptation  to  observe  that  he 
had  guessed  it  right  first  time.  Parslow  added  that 
the  work  of  an  explorer  or  traveller  had  always  com- 
manded his  respect. 

On  the  same  day  Miranda  received  a  long  letter 
from  Halliday.  The  amorous  and  wary  schoolmaster 
had  typewritten  the  address  on  the  envelope,  knowing 
that  his  handwriting  might  betray  the  letter  to  her 
implacable  father.  Miranda  wrote  the  reply  in  the 
secrecy  of  her  own  room,  and  posted  it  herself,  and — 
I  regret  to  add — never  told  papa  anything  about  it. 

Then  the  newspapers  brought  information  about  Sir 
George  Firbrook.  Parslow  read  with  approbation 
that  Sir  George  would  contest  West  Buncombe. 
Later  came  the  still  more  splendid  news  of  his  election, 
and  how  he  had  said  that  he  regarded  it  as  a  triumph 
not  for  himself,  but  for  the  principles  of — I  forget  for 
the  moment  what  his  principles  were.  Later  still  Sir 
George  was  unseated  on  a  bribery  petition,  and  Mr. 
Parslow  observed  that  one  could  not  be  too  careful. 
He  had  a  vague  idea  that  Davidson  was  in  some  way 
to  blame. 

After  that  for  a  long  time  no  word  was  heard  of  Sir 
George  or  Sir  Andrew,  until  the  appointed  year  was 
within  a  fortnight  of  its  conclusion.  It  was  a  sunny 


46          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

morning,  and  Mr.  Parslow  was  in  a  sunny  humor; 
business  was  very  good,  and  the  public  appetite  for  the 
Pure  Preserves  was  steadily  increasing.  Likewise  he 
had  been  elected  to  a  club  where  he  might  very  easily 
have  been  rejected,  and  in  this  matter  Davidson  had 
been  of  some  use.  Parslow  was  chatting  genially  with 
his  secretary  when  the  blow  fell.  The  blow  came  in 
two  envelopes,  one  from  New  York  and  the  other 
from  London. 

Parslow  read  through  the  first  letter  and  let  it  drop 
from  his  hands. 

"Davidson,  that  man  Sir  Andrew  Tangamere  has 
married  an  American." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Davidson.  "These  American  wom- 
en ought  to  be  prohibited.  They're  too  dangerous." 

"It  is  no  subject  for  jesting,"  said  Parslow,  as  he 
tore  open  the  second  envelope  and  ran  his  eye  down 
it.  "I  hardly  know  how  to  characterize  his  behavior, 
and — good  heavens,  Davidson,  this  is  from  Sir  George 
Firbrook,  and  he's  engaged  to  the  cook  at  Lord  Hazel- 
well's  place,  and  says  that  she  is  a  woman  much  above 
her  station." 

"So  she  is,"  said  Davidson. 

"How  do  you  know  ?  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I 
really  don't.  What  are  men  coming  to  ?  Where  is  the 
spirit  of  chivalry?  They  can't  even  wait  for  one  year. 
How  long  was  it  that  Rachel  waited  for  Leah  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  ought  to — it's  in  the  Bible.  And  perhaps 
you'll  fell  me  where  we  are  now;  you  had  your  rotten 
scheme  and  badgered  me  into  it,  though  I  knew  it 
was  all  wrong.  What  have  we  got  for  it?  I  might 
have  had  either  of  these  men.  And  now,  I  suppose, 
you'll  tell  me  that  I  can  marry  Miranda  to  Halliday, 


47 

that  schoolmaster  that  you  were  always  backing  up." 

Davidson  rose  from  his  place,  and  slightly  empha- 
sized the  fact  that  he  was  rather  taller  than  Mr.  Pars- 
low.  He  was  very  erect,  and  by  this  time  very  serious. 

"If  you  had  married  her,  sir,  you  would  have,  at 
any  rate,  married  her  to  a  man  who  really  loved  her, 
and  was  not  fickle." 

"So  you're  still  at  it?  Like  me  to  write  him  a  letter 
of  invitation?" 

"It  would  be  of  no  use.  He  sent  some  time  ago  a 
letter  of  proposal  to  Miranda,  and  she  refused  him  as 
kindly  as  possible.  She  did  not  tell  you,  because  she 
was  afraid  you  would  write  a  letter  which  would  in- 
sult him,  and  do  no  credit  to  your  own  kindly  heart. 
For  it  is  kindly  enough  at  bottom,  and  Halliday's  one 
crime  was  poverty." 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  lecture  me,  Mr.  Davidson.  You 
seem  to  know  everything — including  people's  cooks. 
How  do  you  know  this  ?  How  do  you  dare  to  speak  of 
my  daughter  in  that  familiar  way?" 

"I  know  it  because  Miranda  told  me.  I  speak  of  her 
thus  because  she  is  my  wife.  I  married  her  a  week 
ago." 

"You  utter  scoundrel!"  He  dropped  into  a  chair; 
his  ringers  played  nervously  on  his  chin.  "Oh,  you 
utter  scoundrel!" 

Davidson  smiled  charmingly.  "But  not  bad  enough 
to  resent  the  language  of  my  father-in-law." 

"You  have  taken  advantage  of  your  position." 

"Undoubtedly.  That  is  the  way  one  gets  on.  Have 
you  not  found  it  so,  sir?" 

"You  have  the  position  no  longer.  I  renounce  you 
altogether.  Neither  Miranda  nor  you  shall  have  a 
penny." 


48          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"That  is  immaterial,  but  your  daughter  would  like 
to  keep  your  affection,  and  I  to  keep  my  high  opinion 
of  you.  I  can,  of  course,  no  longer  be  your  secretary; 
in  any  case,  I  have  other  work  to  do.  My  uncle  has 
made  me  a  decidedly  advantageous  offer  to  assist  him 
in  the  management  of  his  estates.  I  married  on  it." 

"And  who's  your  uncle?" 

"Lord  Hazelwell." 

"Then  why  the  dickens  didn't  you  say  so  before?" 

"Well,  sir,  it  didn't  happen  to  occur." 

"So  Sir  George  Firbrook,  Baronet,  is  going  to  marry 
my  secretary's  uncle's  cook?" 

"It  would  appear  so." 

"It's  a  strange  world.  My  boy,  I  am  going  to  speak 
very  seriously  to  Miranda.  You  have  neither  of  you 
treated  me  well.  At  the  same  time,  when  you're  face 
to  face  with  the  inevitable — when,  I  say,  you're 
face  to  face  with  the  inevitable — then  it  is  so." 

But  months  have  since  elapsed,  and  at  present  Mr. 
Parslow  speaks  of  "my  old  friend  Hazelwell,"  and 
calls  his  son-in-law  Bill.  Halliday,  on  hearing  of  the 
marriage,  sent  a  charming  letter  to  Miranda,  together 
with  a  copy  of  Byron's  works  in  a  binding  of  intense 
preciousness.  Certain  passages  in  the  poems  were 
marked  by  him  in  pencil;  but  as  neither  Bill  nor 
Miranda  has  ever  opened  the  book,  nor  in  all  prob- 
ability ever  will,  that  does  not  greatly  matter. 


IV 

THE  FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK 

AS  a  specialist  in  the  cure  of  imaginative,  conver- 
sational lying,  I  have  incurred  the  dislike  and 
distrust  of  the  English  medical  profession.  Because 
I  have  no  English  diploma,  and  no  faith  in  drugs,  I 
am  called  a  quack.  Only  the  other  day  a  medical 
paper  challenged  my  right  to  style  myself  Professor 
Palbeck.  Well,  my  name  is  Palbeck,  and  I  profess  to 
cure  conversational  lying,  and  I  suppose  that  a  man 
who  professes  is  a  professor.  I  do  not  know  what 
more  the  medical  journals  want.  I  do  know — and  I 
take  this  opportunity  to  remind  the  medical  journals 
of  it — that  there  is  a  law  of  libel  and  also  a  limit  to  my 
patience. 

There  are  compensations,  however,  for  the  persecu- 
tions which  I  have  to  endure.  The  handsome  silver 
salver  on  my  sideboard  is  a  testimonial  from  a  well- 
known  golf  club.  It  is  inscribed: — 

TO   PROFESSOR   PALBECK, 
IN    GRATEFUL   RECOGNITION    OF    HIS   SKILL 

IN   INDUCING 

ALGERNON   MUIR   McARTHUR  McANDERSON 

TO   DRAW   THE  LINE 

SOMEWHERE, 

Mr.  McAnderson's  was,  I  remember,  a  very  obsti- 
nate case,  though  it  yielded  to  treatment.  There  was 

49 


50          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

a  bad  history :  his  uncle  on  the  mother's  side  had  been 
a  journalist,  and  his  paternal  grandfather  had  been  en- 
gaged in  the  manufacture  of  gas-meters.  Naturally, 
as  soon  as  Algernon  Me  Anderson  took  to  golf,  the 
taint  showed  itself. 

In  addition  to  the  testimonial  the  golf  club  paid 
my  fees,  which  in  this  instance  were  considerable. 
There  are  many  conversational  liars  in  the  world,  and 
they  make  other  people  sick  and  weary,  and  then  the 
other  people  are  glad  to  pay  me  to  intervene.  The 
material  prosperity  that  has  rewarded  me  is  some  com- 
pensation, and  to  the  gratitude  of  my  fellow-men  I 
attach  an  even  greater  value.  This  gratitude  comes 
more  often  from  the  friends  of  patients  than  from  the 
patients  themselves.  But  there  are  exceptions,  of 
course.  The  wife  of  a  country  vicar  writes  that  she 
will  never  forget  how  I  taught  her  to  keep  a  spaniel 
without  writing  letters  about  its  instinct  to  the  papers 
in  a  manner  unbecoming  to  one  who  had  the  temper- 
ance cause  at  heart.  I  still  use  the  pretty  beaded  pen- 
wiper that  accompanied  her  note.  Then,  in  addition 
to  the  material  prosperity  and  the  gratitude,  I  have 
my  scientific  interest  in  my  work  and  my  happy  con- 
sciousness that  it  is  a  good  work.  Compared  with 
that,  the  mere  money  is  nothing. 

In  one  of  the  cures  for  dipsomania  every  article  of 
food  and  drink  supplied  to  the  patient  is  flavored 
slightly  with  brandy;  his  clothes,  his  bed,  the  air  he 
breathes,  are  made  to  smell  of  brandy.  One  of  my 
cures  for  lying  is  on  the  same  principle;  the  patient 
is  sent  to  a  little  country  inn,  chiefly  frequented  by 
anglers  and  golfers,  the  local  talent  being  secretly  re- 
inforced by  my  own  assistants,  professional  liars,  act- 
ing under  my  direction.  In  both  cures  the  aim  is  the 


FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    51 

same — by  monotony  to  produce  disgust.  It  was  in 
this  way  that  I  cured  Mr.  McAnderson;  gradually, 
but  surely,  he  became  utterly  sick  of  imaginative  con- 
versation. For  very  hardened  cases  I  have  a  more 
severe  method,  also  involving  the  use  of  assistants. 
Here  also  strict  secrecy  is  observed.  The  patient  does 
not  even  know  that  he  is  being  treated,  and  regards 
the  assistants  as  the  natural  product  of  the  society  in 
which  he  happens  to  be  moving. 

Do  I  always  succeed? 

I  will  be  perfectly  frank  in  answering  that  question. 
If  you  know  any  man  of  sanguine  habitual  imaginative- 
ness you  may  (if  your  means  permit  it)  send  him  to 
me  and  I  will  guarantee  a  cure.  The  most  heroic, 
illimitable,  ebullient  liar  comes  out  of  my  hands  as 
accurate  as  Bradshaw's  time-tables.  But  I  did  once 
fail — though  that  failure  has  been  the  cause  of  much 
subsequent  success. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  consulting-room  one  morning 
engaged  in  mapping  out  the  work  of  my  assistants — 
for  I  had  several  cases  in  hand — when  my  man  brought 
me  the  card  of  Mrs.  Hubert  Spotter.  As  she  had 
no  appointment  I  kept  her  in  the  waiting-room  for 
twenty  minutes  before  I  ordered  the  man  to  show 
her  in. 

Mrs.  Hubert  Spotter  was,  as  I  could  see  by  her  dress, 
a  widow.  She  looked  troubled,  and  wealthy  enough 
to  pay  my  fees.  She  had  a  pleasant  voice  and  was 
rather  garrulous. 

"Was  it  about  yourself  that  you  wished  to  see  me, 
Mrs.  Spotter?"  I  asked  as  she  sat  down  in  the  chair 
opposite  me. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  began.  "I  never — well,  the  usual — 
nothing  more  than  anybody  else  does.  You  can't 


52          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

always  say  just  what  you  mean,  or  you  wouldn't  have 
a  friend  left.  And " 

"Quite  so,"  I  said.  "You  needn't  trouble  yourself, 
Mrs.  Spotter  (and  certainly  I  shouldn't  trouble  myself 
professionally),  about  trivial  and  occasional  inaccura- 
cies. That  would  be  hypochondriacal.  No  moral  con- 
stitution is  perfect,  and  if  it  were  it  wouldn't  be.  An 
entire  absence  of  abnormalities  is  in  itself  abnormal. 
Now  who  is  the  friend  that " 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is  my  son — my  only  son." 

"His  name?"  I  inquired,  with  pencil  and  note-book 
in  my  hand. 

"Harold  Bitterwood  Spotter,  age  twenty-one." 

"Is  there — er — a  congenital  mendacious  diathesis?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

"I  mean,  has  he  always  been  imaginative?" 

"No,  not  at  all.  Even  now  he  speaks  the  truth 
about  most  things.  It's  only  come  on  since  he  took  to 
bicycling." 

"I  must  tell  you,"  I  said,  "that  I  have  found  in 
my  professional  experience  that  the  bicycling  beginner 
frequently  suffers  from  a  profuse  extravasation  of 
mendacity.  He  says  that  he  learned  to  ride  in  five  min- 
utes, could  mount  from  the  step  in  ten,  and  so  on.  Is 
that  not  so?" 

"What  my  son  says  is  that  he  never  learned  at  all ; 
that  he  thought  out  the  whole  theory  of  the  thing 
before  he  touched  a  machine,  and  rode  right  away  at 
once  without  any  lesson  or  any  assistance  of  any  kind." 

I  gave  a  low  whistle.  "Yes,"  I  said,  "I  am  afraid 
that  is  serious.  And  may  I  ask,  do  you  find  in  his  case 
that  the  imaginative  habit  is  general  or  localized  ?" 

"He  talks  chiefly  about  bicycling;  in  fact,  I  have 
noticed  nothing  apart  from  that." 


53 

"Localized,"  I  replied ;  "which  is  just  what  I  should 
have  expected;  a  special  irritation  of  the  imaginative 
glands.  Well,  that  is  generally  quite  amenable  to 
treatment." 

"His  conversation  is  simply  one  string  of  the  most 
tremendous — of  statements  that  are  very  much  so 
indeed.  He  is  losing  friends  by  it.  A  most  satisfac- 
tory marriage  had  been  arranged  for  him,  and  the  lady 
will  now  break  it  off.  He  is  spoiling  all  his  chances  in 
life.  It  is  a  terrible  case." 

"Serious,  as  I  have  admitted,  but  amenable.  I  pre- 
fer— I  positively  prefer  to  have  the  eruption  pro- 
nounced and  well  defined.  The  liar  who  lies  by  impli- 
cation frequently  gives  me  far  more  trouble.  There 
is  more  chance  for  the  wild  golfing  liar,  for  instance, 
than  for  the  careful  snob  liar.  In  the  latter  case  the 
disease  tends  to  become  chronic.  The  man  who  by 
some  accident  to  his  social  apex  has  met  a  duke  once 
and  only  once,  and  ever  afterwards  speaks  of  that 
duke  as  only  the  duke's  intimate  friends  have  a  right 
to  speak,  that  man  is  far  more  ill  than  he  probably 
supposes.  It  may  take  an  acute  form,  and  end  in 
company-promoting;  but  it  may  go  on  for  years  with 
little  change,  rendering  the  unhappy  sufferer  an  object 
of  contempt  to  all  who  meet  him.  Of  your  son  now, 
from  what  you  tell  me,  I  have  hopes.  But  of  course 
I  must  see  him,  and  he  must  have  no  idea  of  my 
purpose.  Shall  I  be,  for  instance,  the  husband  of  an 
old  school  friend  of  yours  and  dine  with  you  to-night?" 

"That  would  be  delightful.  Strictly  speaking,  I  am 
dining  out  to-night,  but  I  will  write  and  say  that  I  am 
ill  and  in  bed — I  would  do  far  more  than  that  to  make 
poor  Harold  truthful.  The  time  is  very  short,  but  I 
could  find  two  or  three  other  guests " 


54          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Not  necessary,  thanks.  I  should  prefer  to  meet 
you  and  your  son  alone." 

Mrs.  Hubert  Spotter  had  rather  a  pretty  house  in 
South  Kensington.  As  far  as  I  could  calculate,  she 
would  be  able  to  pay  for  a  course  of  treatment  for  her 
son  if  it  were  not  expensive  or  prolonged.  The  son, 
Harold  Bitterwood  Spotter,  had  more  natural  dignity 
than  one  often  finds  in  so  young  a  man.  He  was  tall 
and  handsome,  with  tired  melancholy  eyes.  There 
was  none  of  the  vulgar  liar's  attempt  to  collar  the 
conversation,  and  no  trace  of  a  noisy  and  boastful 
manner.  He  just  waited  until  the  occasion  arose  and 
then  took  it.  Quietly  and  unostentatiously  he  told 
lie  after  lie,  without  hesitation  and  without  hurry, 
smooth,  massive,  effortless  lies.  But  his  complaint 
was  confined  to  bicycling;  I  do  not  think  he  would 
have  told  lies  on  any  other  subject,  not  though  that 
subject  had  been  his  income  and  he  had  been  filling 
up  the  income-tax  return.  Only  one  of  his  lies — and 
by  no  means  his  best — was  about  himself.  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  had  any  bad  bicycling  accident. 

"I  had  rather  a  curious  escape  once." 

"Do  tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  bore  you,  and  it  was  nothing 
very  much — only  rather  curious.  Last  autumn  I  was 
bicycling  in  Morayshire.  I  was  riding  a  machine  with- 
out a  brake  along  a  precipitous,  desolate  road — very 
foolish  of  me.  For  three  miles  I  had  been  bounding 
downhill  with  the  machine  completely  beyond  my 
power  to  stop.  Coming  suddenly  round  a  corner,  I 
saw,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a  herd  of  black  cattle 
on  the  road  below  me.  There  must  have  been  at 
least  fifty  of  them,  and  they  were  drinking  at  a  shal- 
low stream  which  here  ran  right  across  the  road.  In  a 


FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    55 

fraction  of  a  second  I  had  realized  that,  what  with 
the  cattle  and  then  the  stream,  I  was  a  dead  man,  had 
determined  in  spite  of  that  to  live  to  the  last  second, 
and  had  rung  my  bell  violently.  The  brutes  started  up, 
but  at  the  pace  I  was  going  I  was  in  among  them  before 
they  could  get  away.  They  were  mad  with  fright  and 
dashing  in  all  directions.  To  this  day  I  can  hardly  tell 
how  I  steered  through  them.  I  have  a  vivid  recollec- 
tion of  seeing  a  great  black  thing  floundering  in  front 
of  me,  and  then  suddenly  finding  myself  on  the  other 
side  of  the  stream — one  of  the  cattle  had  stumbled  and 
fallen  in  the  bed  of  the  stream  and  his  body  had  served 
me  for  a  bridge.  I  had  no  sooner  got  through  than 
the  whole  herd  dashed  after  me.  But,  of  course,  at 
the  pace  I  was  going  I  soon  left  them  far  behind,  and 
in  another  mile  a  sharp  rise  in  the  road  enabled  me  to 
check  my  machine.  I  saw  that  I  was  safe,  and  im- 
mediately fell  prostrate  in  the  road.  Nervous  strain, 
I  suppose.  I  was  trembling  so  much  that  I  was  quite 
unable  to  ride  back  and  had  to  walk  my  machine." 

It  was  a  fair  lie  of  the  robust  type,  hardly  a  specimen 
lie,  as  it  wanted  finesse.  But  even  at  this  period  I  was 
struck  by  the  manner  of  his  lying.  It  was  beautiful, 
quiet,  and  a  little  mournful.  It  was  not  common. 
I  could  see  that  he  had  a  gift.  And  here  I  should  like 
to  give  a  word  of  warning  to  anyone  who  may  be 
called  upon  to  judge  of  the  merits  and  demerits  of  a 
lie.  Size  is  not  everything.  Suppose  a  man  asserts, 
for  instance,  that  he  has  swallowed  the  Albert  Hall. 
There  you  have  size  without  quality.  It  is  a  mere  ab- 
surdity, with  no  claim  to  be  called  a  lie  at  all.  The 
best  lie — that  is  to  say,  the  worst  lie — is  that  which 
combines  the  greatest  amount  of  plausibility  and  the 
nearest  approach  to  impossibility  without  being  actu- 


56          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

ally  impossible.  Briefly,  it  must  satisfy  both  the 
aesthetic  and  the  utilitarian  critic. 

But  I  must  proceed  to  describe  the  methods  by 
which  I  treated  Harold  Bitterwood  Spotter.  I  am 
not  in  the  least  afraid  of  giving  my  secrets  away.  Any 
man  may  know  my  methods.  But  to  carry  those 
methods  into  practice  requires  a  large  staff  of  assistants 
of  tact,  secrecy,  marked  ability,  and  any  social  position 
required;  it  requires  in  their  controller  an  audacity, 
a  talent  for  organization,  and  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  of  human  nature,  that  are  not  possessed  together 
and  in  the  same  degree  by  any  man  except  myself. 
No,  I  do  not  fear  competition. 

I  owned  that  I  undervalued  Spotter.  I  thought 
that  he  might  be  cured  by  a  simple  exhibition  of  public 
disproof  in  conjunction  with  ridicule.  It  was  easy 
enough  for  me  to  put  up  an  assistant  of  my  own  to 
meet  Spotter  at  the  club  and  take  him  out  on  the 
subject  of  times  and  distances.  In  the  presence  of 
my  assistant  and  several  other  men,  Spotter  let  him- 
self go  and  gave  rambling  details  of  a  circular  tour 
ridden  by  his  cousin,  who,  Spotter  said,  was  rather 
over  the  average.  My  assistant  carefully  collected  the 
statistics  that  Spotter  from  time  to  time  let  fall,  stewed 
them  down,  so  to  speak,  and  extracted  the  result.  The 
result  was  that — supposing  the  statistics  were  accurate 
— the  distance  from  London  to  Maidenhead  could  not 
be  less  than  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  miles,  and 
Spotter's  cousin  had  ridden  this  distance  in  fifteen 
minutes  and  an  unimportant  decimal.  Where  a  poorer 
liar  would  have  succumbed,  Spotter  triumphed. 
Firstly,  he  joined  in  the  laugh  against  himself.  Then 
he  said,  "But  of  course  you've  got  your  figures  all 
wrong.  Let  me  go  over  them  again."  In  the  manipu- 


FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    57 

lation  of  bicycling  statistics  he  seems  to  have  been 
unparalleled.  He  managed  to  preserve  all  the  salient, 
picturesque  features  of  his  lie,  making  only  such  adroit 
alterations  in  detail  as  rendered  the  ridiculous  deduc- 
tion impossible. 

The  next  day  I  received  an  urgent  letter  from  Mrs. 
Hubert  Spotter.  Harold  was  much  worse.  In  the 
presence  of  his  uncle,  the  archdeacon,  he  had  described 
bicycle  polo.  The  archdeacon  had  looked  much  pained 
and  surprised.  When  was  I  going  to  begin  the  cure? 
The  archdeacon  was  Harold's  godfather,  and  was 
quite  expected  to  do  something  for  him;  and,  Mrs. 
Spotter  added,  she  could  not  bear  to  see  her  boy  sacri- 
ficing all  his  chances  in  life  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
imagination. 

I  decided  to  get  him  into  a  home — that  is,  to  get 
him  to  stop  for  a  few  days  at  that  country  inn.  A 
little  tact  and  suggestion  were  needed.  A  man  at  the 
club — one  of  my  assistants,  of  course — mentioned  that 
he  had  a  first-class  railway  pass  to  the  village  in  ques- 
tion, could  not  use  it,  and  would  gladly  give  it  away. 
On  the  following  night  Harold  Bitterwood  Spotter 
was  safe  in  the  smoking-room  of  that  inn  hearing  two 
of  my  experts  discuss  trick  bicycling.  He  little  knew 
that  he  was  undergoing  a  course  of  treatment,  but  he 
was.  He  remained  there  for  a  week,  and  when  he 
returned  to  London  he  appeared  to  be  perfectly  cured. 
Mrs.  Hubert  Spotter  wrote  me  a  most  grateful  letter, 
from  which  I  quote  the  following  passage : — 

"And  if  it  is  any  comfort  to  you  to  know  it,  dear 
Professor  Palbeck,  the  blessing  of  a  grateful  mother  is 
on  your  head.  Harold  is  a  changed  man.  He  rarely 
mentions  the  bicycle,  though  he  often  rides  it;  and 
never  does  he  allow  himself  to  say  anything  on  the 


58          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

subject  that  is  not  strictly  and  prosaically  accurate. 
A  reconciliation  has  taken  place  between  him  and  the 
younger  Miss  Black-Brunswick  (the  lady  to  whom  he 
was  engaged),  and  he  is  trying  to  cure  her  of  a  habit 
of  slight  exaggeration.  The  archdeacon  was  lunching 
here  the  other  day  and  turned  the  conversation  (inten- 
tionally, I  thought)  on  bicycling.  For  a  moment  I  was 
afraid  that  Harold  would  be  brilliant  and  imagina- 
tive again.  But  no.  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about 
bicycles,  but  Harold  was  so  dull  and  was  so  plainly 
trying  to  be  interesting  that  I  could  see  that  he  was 
speaking  the  truth.  The  archdeacon  saw  it  too,  and 
was  obviously  much  pleased." 

For  the  whole  of  one  week  during  his  stay  at  the 
inn  Harold  had  never  once  heard  the  truth  spoken 
about  anything.  A  distaste  for  mendacity  had  by  this 
means  been  created.  He  could  not,  his  mother  told 
me,  even  endure  the  usual  formula,  "Not  at  home." 
I  was  sorry  to  hear  it ;  the  strongest  revulsion  is  rarely 
the  most  enduring.  To  speak  accurately,  I  was  not 
sorry  to  hear  it,  for  the  longer  the  cure  the  larger  the 
cheque — provided  that  in  a  sufficient  number  of  cases 
you  can  cure  promptly  enough  to  make  and  keep  your 
reputation.  But  I  was  not  surprised  when  a  few  weeks 
afterwards  I  received  the  following  telegram  from 
Mrs.  Hubert  Spotter: — 

"Harold  had  terrible  relapse.    Come  at  once." 

I  went  at  once.  "Professor  Palbeck?"  said  the  but- 
ler. "Mrs.  Spotter  is  at  home  to  you."  There  was 
a  flattering  accent  on  the  "you." 

I  found  her  alone  and  almost  hysterical.  Harold 
Bitterwood  Spotter  had  broken  out  again.  The  arch- 
deacon had  written  to  say  that  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  for  a  young  man  whose  conversation  consisted 


FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    59 

of  one  long  string  of  cowardly  and  offensive  lies  on  the 
subject  of  the  bicycle.  Miss  Black-Brunswick  (with 
twelve  thousand  of  her  own)  had  definitely  broken 
off  the  engagement.  The  committee  of  his  club  had 
written  to  him  to  say  that  representations  had  been 
made  to  them  with  reference  to  his  recent  remarks  on 
the  bicycling  mile  record;  that  they  wished  to  cast 
no  imputations  on  his  honesty,  but  they  wished  him 
either  to  resign  or  to  guarantee  all  hats,  coats,  and 
umbrellas  that  might  be  in  the  hall  during  any  period 
when  he  was  using  the  house. 

"And  he  is  not  dishonest,"  gasped  Mrs.  Spotter. 
"It  is  only  that  his  imagination  runs  away  with  him." 

"Quite  so,"  I  said.  "Very  well;  the  imagination 
that  runs  away  must  be  treated  precisely  as  a 
horse  that  runs  away.  When  it  has  finished  running 
away  on  its  own  account  it  must  be  made  to  go  on 
running  on  account  of  the  driver." 

"I  don't  understand  you;  and  Harold  is  not  a 
horse,"  said  Mrs.  Spotter.  In  her  distress  some  of  her 
normal  suavity  of  manner  had  vanished. 

"I  will  explain,"  I  said.  "I  intend  to  hand  over 
your  son  to  what  I  call  the  Outlying  Department.  I 
had  reason  to  suppose,  some  time  ago,  that  your  son 
was  quite  an  exceptional  liar — that  he  lied  for  the 
pure  joy  of  lying  and  from  no  base  and  selfish  motive. 
The  braggart  liar  (one  of  the  commonest  varieties) 
would  have  been  confounded  and  cured  by  public  ex- 
posure. But  your  son  is  not  a  braggart  liar.  The 
liar  by  habit,  again,  would  have  been  cured  by  a  brief 
stay  in  a  house  where  everybody  lied,  and  would  have 
found  the  habit  nauseous.  Your  son  is  not  merely 
the  habitual  liar,  for  though  he  was  affected  tempo- 
rarily by  this  manner  of  treatment  he  was  not  cured. 


60          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

It  only  needed  a  strong  suggestion  to  cause  the  re- 
lapse. At  a  guess  I  should  say  that  your  son  had  been 
in  some  thoroughfare  where  bicycle  shops  were  fre- 
quent." 

"True.  He  was  in  Holborn  in  the  morning.  In 
the  evening  we  were  dining  out  together,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  show  that  there  was  anything  wrong 
with  him  until — I  hate  to  repeat  it — but  I  heard  him 
tell  the  girl  that  he  had  taken  down,  that  that  after- 
noon he  had  seen  a  man  ride  a  bicycle  backwards 
through  the  traffic  at  Piccadilly  Circus.  I  got  him 
away  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  I  hope  it  wasn't  noticed 
much.  But,  oh,  you  can  imagine  my  distress!  What 
are  we  to  do  ?" 

"Without  the  least  delay  he  must  meet  a  finer  liar 
than  himself.  His  spirit  must  be  broken;  his  pride 
in  his  lies  humbled;  his  joy  in  his  best  stories  turned 
to  bitterness.  As  I  have  said,  I  feared  a  relapse.  I 
also  prepared  for  it.  Within  the  last  two  months  your 
son  has  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  Mr.  Watchet.  To 
your  son  Mr.  Watchet  is  a  barrister  and  a  very  good 
fellow,  with  no  practice,  and  with  private  means.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Watchet  is  in  receipt  of  an  annual 
salary  of  seven  hundred  pounds  from  myself.  He  is 
in  my  employ.  He  is  quite  the  best  man  in  my  Out- 
lying Department,  and  if  any  man  in  the  world  can 
outlie  your  son,  it  is  Mr.  Watchet.  He  has  great  talent 
— was  at  one  time  an  interviewer  for  an  American 
paper,  and  afterwards  took  charge  of  a  financial  col- 
umn. I  will  put  Watchet  on,  and  if  he  fails,  then  the 
case  is  hopeless." 

"You  couldn't  do  it  yourself  ?"  suggested  Mrs.  Spot- 
ter. 

"I  cannot  lie,"  I  replied. 


FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    61 

"Nor  I,  nor  I.  Let  it  be  Mr.  Watchet,  then.  Warn 
him  that  Harold  is  exceptional.  Tell  him  to  be  well 
prepared  beforehand.  Don't  let  him  fail." 

But  he  did  fail.  He  met  Spotter  in  the  street  and 
took  him  off  to  dine  at  the  club — Watchet's  club. 
Spotter  had  few  engagements,  and  already  his  friends 
were  dropping  off.  In  the  ordinary  course  Watchet 
should  have  called  at  my  office  on  the  following  morn- 
ing at  ten  o'clock  to  present  his  report.  At  twelve  he 
had  not  come,  and  I  felt  so  uneasy  that  I  drove  round 
to  the  flat  where  he  lived. 

"Mr.  Watchet  is  not  well  this  morning,"  said  the 
servant.  "The  doctor  has  been.  I  don't  know " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Watchet  will  see  me,"  I  replied,  and  en- 
tered his  study.  The  first  thing  that  met  my  eyes  was 
a  large  panel  portrait  of  Harold  Bitterwood  Spotter  in 
the  place  of  honor  in  the  center  of  the  mantelpiece; 
the  next  was  Watchet,  prostrate  on  the  sofa.  He  was 
a  man  of  small  physique,  with  pale  yellow  hair  and 
childish,  truthful  blue  eyes.  He  groaned  to  himself. 

"Hallo,  Watchet!    What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

He  raised  himself  slowly.  "Professor  Palbeck,"  he 
said,  "it's  all  over.  We  left  the  club  at  two  o'clock 
this  morning;  and  I  have  failed.  Look!"  He  pointed 
to  the  portrait.  "Look,  and  take  off  your  hat,  for 
that  is  a  master.  I  persuaded  him  to  send  it  me.  I 
reverence  it.  And  accept  my  resignation." 

"Nonsense!    You'll  do  better  next  time." 

"No,  my  spirit  is  broken.  I  shall  never  do  any 
really  fine  lying  again.  I  can  make  a  living  homehow 
— write  a  column  of  racing  chatter  or  something  of 
that  kind — but  I  am  not  fit  for  the  Outlying  Depart- 
ment." And  then  he  tried  to  tell  me  what  had  hap- 
pened 


62          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

It  appeared  that  Spotter  began  immediately  after 
dinner  with  what  he  called  "a  curious  thunderstorm 
experience  that  happened  to  my  friend  James  John- 
son." James  Johnson  was  riding  in  Devonshire.  It 
was  a  hot,  close,  thirsty  day,  and  Johnson  (who  was 
a  teetotaler)  had  taken  a  stone  bottle  of  ginger-beer 
with  him  to  refresh  himself.  The  roads  were  lonely, 
and  you  might  ride  for  miles  without  coming  across 
a  house  or  a  human  being.  When  Johnson  essayed 
his  ginger-beer  the  cork  broke  off  about  half-way 
down.  He  found  himself  unable  to  force  the  lower 
half  of  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  and  he  had  no  cork- 
screw with  which  to  draw  it  out.  Johnson  was  dis- 
appointed, but  he  rode  on  in  search  of  humanity  and 
the  chance  to  borrow  a  corkscrew.  Just  then  the  storm, 
which  had  for  a  long  time  been  gathering,  broke  with 
awful  violence.  The  rain  swirled,  the  thunder  roared, 
the  skies  were  split  with  lightning.  Johnson,  who  like 
most  teetotalers  was  a  singularly  calm  man,  rode  stead- 
ily on  through  the  storm.  At  last  there  came  a  blinding 
flash  and  Johnson  fell  to  the  ground.  The  lightning 
had  struck,  not  the  man,  but  the  bicycle.  Johnson 
himself  was  absolutely  uninjured.  At  first  sight  the 
bicycle  also  appeared  to  be  uninjured,  but  on  closer 
examination  Johnson  found  that  the  lightning  had 
torn  out  one  spoke  and  twisted  it  into  a  spiral.  "This 
is  really  very  convenient,"  said  Johnson  to  himself, 
and  without  the  least  hesitation  used  that  spoke  as  a 
corkscrew,  drank  his  ginger-beer,  and  rode  on. 

On  hearing  this  little  story  Watchet  pulled  himself 
together  and  remarked  that  a  calm  man  like  Johnson 
ought  to  have  been  able  to  pass  the  pin-test  for  straight 
riding. 

"What  is  that?"  Spotter  asked. 


FAILURE  OF  PROFESSOR  PALBECK    63 

"It's  in  use  at  some  of  the  best  cycling  schools. 
They  break  an  ordinary  pin  in  half  and  fix  the  two 
halves  lightly  in  a  plank  along  which  the  competitor 
has  to  ride.  The  distance  between  the  two  halves  is 
exactly  the  circumference  of  the  front  wheel.  The 
first  half  is  fixed  with  the  point  uppermost,  and  the 
second  with  the  head  uppermost.  Therefore,  if  you 
ride  quite  straight,  the  first  half  punctures  the  tire 
with  the  point,  and  the  second  half  plugs  the  hole  up 
again  with  the  head,  and  you  go  on  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  A  really  first-rate  man  will  do  the  trick 
twenty  times  running  without  missing." 

At  this  juncture  Watchet  confidently  expected  that 
Spotter  would  give  up.  On  the  contrary,  Spotter 
smiled  and  then  said — 

"You  remind  me  of  what  once  happened  to  my 
cousin.  On  a  downward  slope  of  a  hard  road,  with 
the  wind  helping  him,  he  once  did  a  mile  in  a  minute 
with  a  hole  in  his  front  tire  the  size  of  a  threepenny 
bit.  At  the  pace  he  was  going  the  pressure  of  the 
atmosphere  prevented  the  air  from  escaping  and  kept 
the  tire  fully  expanded,  on  the  same  principle  as  the 
ordinary  railway  brake." 

"Yes,"  said  Watchet,  "that  would  be  so,  when  the 
hole  faced  in  the  direction  in  which  he  was  going; 
but  when  as  the  wheel  revolved  it  faced  the  other  way, 
what  then  ?" 

"Well,  then  the  force  of  the  wind  did  the  same 
thing.  I  told  you  the  wind  was  in  my  cousin's  favor. 
You  can't  do  a  mile  in  a  minute  without  a  wind  to 
help  you,  you  know." 

I  consider  it  greatly  to  Watchet's  credit  that  he 
struggled  on  after  this,  lying  as  best  he  could,  until 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  But  I  accepted  his  resig- 


64          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

nation.  I  cannot  afford  to  pay  seven  hundred  a  year 
to  a  man  who  fails. 

I  drove  on  to  Mrs.  Spotter's  house.  I  changed  my 
tone  to  her.  I  said  that  I  had  been  unable  to  alter 
her  son,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  He  had  a  great  gift, 
and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  it.  I  would  make  no 
charge  for  my  services,  and  I  would  gladly  employ 
her  son  in  the  Outlying  Department  at  an  annual  sal- 
ary of  eight  hundred  pounds.  The  offer  was  ac- 
cepted. 

Spotter  is  invaluable  to  me.  I  have  mentioned  the 
case  of  McAnderson.  Nothing  did  him  any  good  until 
I  handed  him  over  to  Harold  Bitterwood  Spotter. 
McAnderson  'was  a  fine  golf  liar,  but  he  could  not 
stand  against  Spotter.  He  came  out  cured  after  half 
an  hour's  interview.  "I  went  in  there,"  he  told  me 
afterwards,  "with  the  idea  that  I  knew  what  lying 
was,  and  I  saw  that  the  highest  pinnacle  to  which  I 
could  attain  was  fathomless  depth  below  his  feet  He 
is  a  master.  He  does  not  lie,  he  soars.  I  need  hardly 
say  that  I  at  once  abandon  any  paltry  attempts  that 
I  have  made  in  that  direction.  I  am  but  the  smallest 
star;  he  is  the  sun." 

Yes,  I  failed  to  cure  Spotter.  But  thanks  to  that 
failure,  I  shall  never  fail  again. 


V 

THE  'EIGHTY-SEVEN 

IN  the  dining-room  at  17  Wilber force  Square,  S.W., 
the  Sunday  had  received  its  midday  consecration. 
Luncheon  had  been  made  dinner,  for  the  same  reason 
that  later  in  the  day  dinner  would  be  made  supper. 
"We  must  think  of  the  servants,"  said  Mrs.  Trope. 
She  thought  of  many  other  things — of  the  winter  sales, 
for  instance,  or  of  the  present  trouble  about  Patricia 
and,  Edward — but  she  never  quite  forgot  the  servants. 

The  roast  sirloin  had  passed  away,  the  tart  and  the 
Cheddar  had  followed  in  their  solemn  Sabbatical  order. 
Mrs.  Trope  and  her  two  daughters  had  retired.  There 
remained  now  the  fruits  of  the  earth  in  their  season — 
walnuts,  to  be  precise — and  the  decanters,  and  Mr. 
Trope.  It  was  one  of  Mr.  Trope's  many  good  habits 
to  take  a  glass  of  port  after  the  luncheon-dinner  of 
Sunday.  A  silvery-haired  gentleman  of  rather  presi- 
dential appearance,  he  paused  with  the  nut-crackers  in 
his  fleshy  hand — paused  and  reflected. 

There  had  been  an  unwonted  gloom  over  the  dinner- 
table,  and  it  had  not  escaped  Mr.  Trope's  parental  eye 
that  Patricia,  his  elder  daughter,  had  been  unable  to 
eat.  There  was  to  be  an  interview  with  Edward  at 
four,  and  Mr.  Trope  foresaw  that  it  would  be  painful. 

But  what  could  be  done?  Edward  was  a  pleasant 
young  fellow,  and  old  Purdon,  his  father,  had  been 
the  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Trope.  Edward  Purdon 

65 


66          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

under  ordinary  circumstances  would  have  been  always 
a  welcome  guest  at  Mr.  Trope's  house.  But  Edward 
had  been  insane  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  Patricia 
Trope.  He  wished  to  marry  her — and  he  had  three 
hundred  a  year.  Was  Patricia  to  be  taken  from  the 
easeful  and  dignified  life  of  17  Wilberforce  Square, 
S.W.,  to  be  plunged  into  a  penurious  struggle  and  a 
suburban  insignificance?  Clearly  not.  "I'm  only  do- 
ing what  I  know  to  be  best  for  you,"  Mr.  Trope  had 
said  to  his  daughter. 

"I  know,"  said  Patricia,  who  was  heart-broken,  but 
much  too  proud  to  weep.  "But  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

So  as  he  cracked  his  last  walnut,  Mr.  Trope,  being 
kindly  of  heart,  tried  to  think  of  one  or  two  compli- 
mentary phrases  by  which  he  might  soften  the  blow  to 
Edward.  Patricia  might  go  away  for  a  holiday  for 
a  while,  and  he'd  buy  her  a  present;  she  had  said 
some  weeks  before  that  she  would  like  a  string  of 
pearls,  and  she  should  have  them.  It  is  not  only  the 
cruel  who  give  stones  to  those  who  are  crying  for 
bread. 

The  door  opened  softly,  but  Mr.  Trope  did  not  look 
round.  Parlormaids  are  sometimes  anxious  to  begin 
their  Sunday  afternoons  as  early  as  possible;  Mr. 
Trope  had  observed  it  on  previous  occasions.  "It's 
all  right,  Willis,"  he  said,  "you  can  clear.  Just  take 
my  port  through  into  the  library,  and " 

But  it  was  not  Willis ;  it  was  Mrs.  Trope. 

"John  dear,"  she  said,  "the  thought  has  occurred 
to  me  that  if  we  continued  her  dress  allowance " 

"Four  hundred  instead  of  three.  No,  Agnes,  no 
use.  She  simply  couldn't  live  on  it.  It's  no  kindness 
to  let  her  try.  When  I  married  you,  1  had  a  thousand 
a  year  and  prospects — which  have  been  more  than 


THE   'EIGHTY-SEVEN  67 

fulfilled.  There's  a  right  way  and  a  wrong  way. 
Here's  a  girl;  one  day  she  wants,  naturally  enough,  a 
string  of  pearls,  which  you  may  call  two  hundred  and 
fifty  sovereigns,  and  the  next  day  she  wants  to  go  off 
on  three  hundred  a  year.  Ab-so-lutely  preposterous!" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Trope,  "I  don't  understand 
these  money  matters,  and  never  did.  I've  been  wise 
enough  to  leave  that  to  you,  John.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
even  know  how  much  money  we've  got.  But  it  is  so 
difficult  to  know  what  to  do  for  the  best.  Poor 
Patricia !  She's  gone  off  to  her  room,  and  I'm  afraid 
she  really  is  crying  this  time,  and  Martia — you  know 
how  devoted  she  is  to  her  sister — is  quite  depressed 
too;  she  just  sits  at  the  piano,  without  playing  any- 
thing, and  saying  that  money  is  nothing  but  a  curse." 

"Then  she's  a  very  silly  child,"  said  Mr.  Trope 
presidentially,  "and  you  can  tell  her  so  from  me.  Why, 
bless  my  soul,  anybody  would  think  I  was  going  to 
kill  the  young  man.  I'm  not  even  going  to  forbid 
him  the  house — not  even  that.  Patricia  will  see  him 
every  now  and  then,  say  once  every  three  months. 
I'm  not  obstinate  about  it.  If  he  sticks  to  business 
properly,  in  another  eight  or  ten  years — if  they're 
still  of  the  same  mind — he  may  be  in  a  position  to 
marry  Patricia,  and  nobody  will  be  better  pleased  than 
myself.  Why,  I  like  the  young  fellow,  and  I  liked  his 
father  before  him — an  able  man,  old  Purdon,  if  he'd 
only  have  kept  clear  of  speculation.  You  go  and  see 
Patricia,  and  tell  her  things  are  not  so  bad  as  she 
thinks.  No  engagement  of  any  kind  at  present,  that's 
all  I  say.  And  I'll  take  my  port  into  the  library; 
Wrillis  will  be  waiting  to  clear." 

The  old  gentleman  grasped  the  decanter  and  his 
glass  with  great  care,  and  passed  through  the  door 


68          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

at  the  further  end  of  the  dining-room.  In  the  library 
a  bright  wood  fire  was  burning,  and  a  chair  of  seduc- 
tive ease  had  been  drawn  up  to  it.  Beside  the  chair 
on  a  low  table  were  the  Sunday  papers,  and  there  was 
still  room  on  the  table  for  a  decanter  and  a  glass. 
Mr.  Trope  lowered  himself  with  dignity  into  the  easy 
chair. 

If  Mr.  Trope  had  continued  his  usual  Sabbath  pro- 
cedure, he  would  have  taken  two  glasses  of  port, 
neither  more  nor  less,  glanced  through  one  newspaper, 
and  subsided  for  the  space  of  one  hour  into  a  contented 
and  refreshing  slumber. 

To-day  he  had  too  much  on  his  mind  to  be  able 
to  interest  himself  in  newspapers.  They  remained 
folded  on  the  table;  but  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  port, 
sipped  it,  and  said,  "Ah-h !" 

What  a  wine  it  was ! 

It  was  not  the  oldest  port  in  his  cellar,  for  he  still 
had  a  comfortable  provision  of  the  '78  which  he  him- 
self had  laid  down.  He  had  known  that  grand  and 
historic  port,  the  '47,  but  that  had  come  to  him  from 
his  father's  cellars.  The  last  bottle  had  gone  now. 
The  wine  that  he  tasted  now  was  the  '87,  surely,  he 
thought,  own  sister  to  the  '47. 

Mr.  Trope  had  laid  down  the  '87  also,  thirty  dozens 
of  it.  But  this  bottle  did  not  belong  to  that  original 
lot.  It  came  from  a  parcel  which  he  had  bought  at  a 
sale  in  '96,  and  although  of  the  same  year,  it  was  of 
a  different  shipper.  That  wise  man,  Mr.  Trope,  had 
decanted  it  himself. 

The  real  port-drinkers,  he  reflected  with  a  pious 
melancholy,  were  dying  out.  Men  that  he  knew  were 
proud  that  they  never  touched  it,  thereby  showing 
gross  ignorance  and  a  poor,  ramshackle  physique. 


THE   'EIGHTY-SEVEN  69 

Others  contented  themselves  with  that  insignificant 
and  emasculated  thing,  a  wood-port;  we  are  a  de- 
cadent race,  and  the  doctor  is  abroad  in  the  land. 

Mr.  Trope  sipped  again — and  again.  Yes,  it  was 
a  queer  thing  that  he  should  be  drinking  that  bottle 
of  '87;  for  he  had  bought  it  with  the  intention  of 
giving  it  back  to  the  original  owner.  Poor  old  Pur- 
don  !  He  had  watched  his  books,  his  pictures,  his  sil- 
ver, his  cellar  dispersed  among  the  people  who  had 
the  money  to  buy  them.  Very  good  prices  had  been 
made,  and  old  Purdon  was  pleased.  All  debt  would 
be  cleared,  and  there  would  still  be  enough  to  give 
Edward  a  start  in  life.  "Glad  you  had  the  '87,"  he 
whispered  to  Mr.  Trope,  who  had  only  bought  it  to 
give  it  back  to  his  friend  again.  Before  he  had  the 
chance — that  very  night — Purdon  was  stricken  down, 
and  two  days  later  was  dead. 

So  Mr.  Trope,  in  his  habitual  health,  was  drinking 
his  dead  friend's  port  preparatory  to  spoiling  the  life 
of  his  dead  friend's  son.  But  that  was  an  absurd  way 
to  put  it.  It  was  wine  he'd  bought  and  paid  for  (he 
filled  his  glass  again).  And  back  it  would  have  gone 
into  his  old  friend's  cellar  if  death  had  not  intervened. 
He  had  acted  generously,  certainly  he  had.  He  pre- 
ferred to  act  generously. 

Still  .  .  .  well,  a  man's  first  duty  was  surely  to 
protect  his  own  daughter's  interests — to  protect  her 
against  herself,  if  need  were. 

The  glass  of  port  winked  a  ruby  eye  at  the  fire. 
The  fire  winked  a  golden  eye  back  at  the  port  again. 
It  was  almost  as  if  these  inanimate  things  conversed 
together. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  how  much  money  he 
has,"  spluttered  the  fire.  "I  only  came  to-day." 


70          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"I  know  him  well,"  the  port  winked  back.  "A  very 
warm  man,  Mr.  Trope.  Could  afford  to  do  a  lot  of 
things  that  he  won't  do." 

Mr.  Trope  extinguished  that  ruby  eye  by  the  nat- 
ural process  of  imbibition,  but  still  that  feeling  of 
Sabbath-afternoon  contentment,  due  to  arrive  with  the 
second  glass,  remained  out  of  sight.  His  wife  and 
daughters  had  been  gloomy,  and  gloom  is  infectious. 
Gloom  of  the  very  deepest  pervaded  the  innocent  and 
business-like  mind  of  Mr.  Trope. 

What  did  it  matter  ?  We  gathered  things  together, 
an  investment  here  and  an  investment  there,  a  few 
dozens  of  a  vintage  of  this  year  or  that,  but  they  would 
all  be  dispersed  in  the  end — by  a  sale  resultant  on 
failure,  or  by  death,  against  which  even  success  is 
powerless.  We  may  buy  things  and  pay  for  them,  but 
they  are  never  our  own  absolutely;  at  the  most,  we 
are  only  tenants  for  life.  Thirty  dozens  of  the  '87 
originally,  and  eleven  that  had  been  old  Purdon's — 
he'd  never  live  to  drink  it  all,  never.  And  he'd  no 
son  to  inherit  it,  and  girls  didn't  understand  it.  Oh 
dear,  oh  dear! 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Mr.  Trope  asked  himself 
if  he  had  had  his  second  glass  of  port.  He  may,  or 
may  not,  have  known  the  correct  answer  to  this  riddle. 
But  he  filled  his  glass  again. 

Possibly  the  breaking  of  one  habit  caused  another 
to  snap,  for  Mr.  Trope  found  himself  wondering  if  it 
was  worth  while  to  cling  to  the  last  halfpenny  till  the 
last  moment.  Could  he  buy  anything  that  he  would 
enjoy  more  than  the  happiness  of  those  he  loved  best? 
The  train  of  thought  thus  started  took  upon  itself  a 
rosy  glow;  it  warmed  and  pleased  him.  He'd  do  it. 
Yes,  by  Jove!  he  would.  And  now  he  would  close 


THE    'EIGHTY-SEVEN  71 

his  eyes  and  get  those  few  moments  of  slumber  so 
valuable  on  Sunday  afternoons  to  strenuous  generous 
natures  who  have 

The  door  opened,  and  Mary  (it  being  Willis's  Sun- 
day out)  announced  Mr.  Edward  Purdon. 

"Bring  another  glass,  Mary.  How'do,  Edward, 
my  boy?" 

Edward  Purdon  was  rather  good-looking,  quite 
manly,  very  shy,  and  desperately  respectful.  When 
the  point  was  reached,  he  put  his  case  with  most 
lamentable  modesty  and  diffidence. 

"So  they've  raised  you  twenty-five,  have  they?" 
said  papa.  "That's  satisfactory,  as  far  as  it  goes. 
But  if  I  permit  this,  you'll  have  to  be  very  careful. 
You  see,  your  income  and  Patricia's  four  hundred  to- 
gether only  come  to  seven  hundred  and  twenty-five. 
Not  much  margin  there." 

"Patricia's  four  hundred! — I  didn't  know  she  had 
any  money,  sir." 

"I  know  you  didn't.  No  more  did  she.  For  that 
matter,  no  more  did  I  until — until  quite  recently. 
But  it  makes  all  the  difference,  otherwise  I  couldn't 
have  listened  to  you — not  for  a  moment — much  though 
we  all  like  you,  Edward.  As  it  is,  living  very  simply, 
you  might  be  able  to  manage,  and  I'm  willing  that  you 
should  try.  (The  glass,  Mary?  Oh,  yes.  Fill  it.) 
And  I  think  there  is  a  toast  we  might  drink." 

And  with  that  toast  Mr.  Trope  finished  his  shameless 
and  irregular  third  glass  of  port.  And  then  while 
Edward  was  doing  his  best  to  say  a  few  of  the  right 
things  that  the  occasion  demanded,  Mr.  Trope  rose 
from  his  place. 

"I'll  send  Patsey  to  you,"  he  said. 

When  Mr.  Trope  entered  the  drawing-room,  Patricia 


72          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

had  a  book,  her  mother  had  some  embroidery,  and 
Martia  was  seated  at  the  piano;  but  nobody  was  get- 
ting on  with  anything,  and  they  all  raised  hopeless 
eyes  towards  the  master  of  the  house. 

"Patsey,"  said  her  father,  "there's  a  young  man 
in  the  library  wants  to  talk  to  you." 

Patricia  gave  one  gulp.  "You  don't  mean — you 
haven't  sent  him  away  ?" 

"If  you  want  him  sent  away,  you'll  have  to  do  it 
yourself.  I  think  it's  highly  probable  he'll  stop  to 
supper,  if  you  ask  him  prettily;  and  if  you'd  like  a 
string  of  pearls  for  a  wedding  present,  I'll  think 
about  it." 

The  next  moment  Patricia  was  kissing  her  father 
frantically  and  exclaiming:  "Oh,  mummy!"  and  "It 
can't  be  true!"  and  "Martia,  Martia!"  and  the  mo- 
ment after  she  was  in  the  library. 

"Then,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trope,  still  agape  with 
astonishment,  "after  all,  you're " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Trope,  "I've  made  some  sort 
of  an  arrangement  which  removes  the  principal  diffi- 
culty. Give  us  a  tune,  Martia." 

"If  I  could  only  play,  sing,  dance,  and  yell  for  joy 
all  at  once,  you  darling!" 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Trope,  "everybody  seems  to 
be  very  excited." 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

It  all  happened  more  than  a  year  ago. 

Mr.  Trope's  habits  have  resumed  their  regularity. 
The  port  which  is  now  being  taken  into  17  Wilberforce 
Square — well,  that  is  some  which  Mr.  Trope  is  laying 
down  for  his  grandson. 


VI 
CLUBS  AND  HEARTS 


THE  quarterly  dinner  of  the  Proposal  Club  was 
drawing  to  its  close.  The  club  consisted  of 
thirty  members,  and  to-night  all  were  present. 

Lord  Northberry,  the  President,  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  was  almost  the  only  man  who  appeared  per- 
fectly calm  and  genial.  On  most  of  the  other  faces 
there  was  a  look  of  anxiety,  and  even  of  fear.  The 
critical  moment  of  the  meeting,  the  transaction  of  the 
club's  extremely  curious  business,  was  just  about  to 
arrive.  Dr.  Bagshot,  the  Secretary,  was  already  fum- 
bling with  his  papers.  The  look  of  anxiety  was  par- 
ticularly noticeable  on  Colonel  Seventree,  a  handsome 
man  of  fifty,  who  was  chatting  over  his  coffee  with  his 
young  friend,  Richard  Tower.  The  Colonel's  fingers 
played  petulantly  with  a  menu-card,  on  the  cover  of 
which  was  emblazoned  the  club  symbol,  a  representa- 
tion of  Curtius  leaping  into  the  gulf. 

"It's  not  right,  you  know,"  said  the  Colonel.  "It's 
playing  with  fire." 

"Then  why  did  you  join  the  club?"  said  Tower. 

"Northberry  was  so  confoundedly  convincing.  You 
know  what  he  is  yourself.  Why,  it  seemed  to  be  al- 
most dishonorable  not  to  join  the  club." 

The  Proposal  Club  is  not  to  be  found  in  Whitaker, 
and  the  Secretary,  with  whom  I  am  personally  ac- 

73 


74          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

quainted,  has  asked  me  not  to  give  its  address.  Its 
members  are  all  bachelors,  and  by  the  rules  of  the  club 
must  be  unmarried,  sound  in  health,  able  to  support 
a  wife,  and  not  quite  intolerably  ugly.  At  each  meet- 
ing three  names  were  selected  by  chance,  and  those 
three  men  were  required  to  make  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage before  the  next  meeting.  To  each  member 
selected  was  assigned  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  to 
propose,  and  this  woman  was  always  chosen  for  the 
improbability  that  under  any  other  circumstances  she 
would  ever  receive  a  proposal  at  all. 

Lord  Northberry  urged  the  beauty  of  it  all  with 
great  enthusiasm.  There  was  no  chivalry,  he  would 
say,  in  loving  and  protecting  a  woman  whom  one 
wished  to  love  and  protect.  There  was  no  merit  in 
giving  one's  heart  where  it  was  quite  impossible  to 
keep  it.  But  there  was  merit  and  there  was  chivalry 
in  the  man  who  was  prepared  cheerfully  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  some  woman  to  whom  Nature  or  the  Fates 
had  not  been  kind. 

"Besides,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  "I  am  a  gambler. 
It  was  a  brilliant  idea  of  Northberry's  to  copy  the 
notion  of  Stevenson's  Suicide  Club,  but  to  make  the 
stakes  rather  bigger." 

"Bigger?"  echoed  Tower. 

"Certainly.  I  have  never  believed  that  death  is 
the  most  important  thing  that  happens  to  one  in  one's 
life.  Northberry  knows  it.  The  Punishment  Com- 
mittee never  kill  a  man  who  has  broken  the  laws  of  the 
club;  they  may  dishonor  him,  but  they  are  too  clever 
to  kill  him.  I  suppose  I've  got  twenty  years  or  so  of 
life  before  me.  In  the  course  of  the  next  ten  minutes 
it  is  easily  possible  that  those  twenty  years  will  be 
arranged  for  me.  I  shall  be  told  to  propose  to  a  certain 


CLUBS  AND  HEARTS  75 

woman,  and,  as  you  know,  the  Investigation  Com- 
mittee see  that  in  making  the  proposal  you  do  your 
very  best  to  get  it  accepted.  I  may  be  accepted."  He 
leant  forward  impressively.  "Mark  my  words,  Tower, 
if  I'm  let  off  to-night  I'll  resign.  I  can't  face  this 
again." 

"Got  your  card  ready  ?"  said  Tower.  "I  see  they're 
coming  round  for  them."  Two  servants  came  down 
the  two  sides  of  the  table  with  salvers  in  their  hands, 
and  each  member  placed  his  visiting-card  on  one  of 
the  salvers.  The  cards  were  then  placed  in  a  covered 
basket  behind  the  President's  chair.  The  Colonel's 
hand  shook  as  he  dropped  his  card  on  the  salver. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  he  began,  "it  can't  be  long  now. 
It's  the  waiting  that " 

The  sound  of  a  gong  rang  through  the  room.  Lord 
Northberry  had  risen.  The  servants  passed  quickly 
and  noiselessly  from  the  room.  The  Secretary  fol- 
lowed them  to  the  door,  closed  it,  locked  it,  and  drew 
over  it  a  heavy  double  curtain. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Lord  Northberry,  "it  is  time 
that  we  proceeded  to  business.  Following  my  custom, 
I  must  point  out  to  you  that  the  business  is  serious." 
He  lifted  a  sheet  of  paper  lying  on  the  table  and  con- 
sulted it.  "I  see  here,"  he  said,  "the  name  of  Major 
Delmay,  who  was  last  year  a  member  of  the  club.  It 
was  decided  that  he  should  propose  to  Lady  Alicia 
Stoke.  The  Committee  of  Investigation  had  reason 
to  believe  that  the  proposal  either  had  not  been  made 
or  had  not  been  made  in  good  faith.  Major  Delmay 's 
expulsion  from  all  his  clubs  for  cheating  at  cards  and 
the  ruin  which  followed  upon  him  are  fresh  within  the 
memory  of  you  all.  Mr.  Archibald  Sterne  maintained 
that  he  had  a  right  to  resign  after  he  had  been  selected 


76          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

to  marry  Miss  Dorothy  Grace  Euphemia  Smiles.  It 
is  a  rule  of  the  club  that  selected  members  have  not 
the  right  of  resignation  until  they  have  executed  their 
trust.  Mr.  Sterne  was  subsequently  elected  for  South 
Loamshire,  and  it  will  be  remarked  that  he  was  un- 
seated on  a  bribery  petition,  and  was  by  no  means 
held  to  be  personally  guiltless.  Mr.  Ramsey  offended 
us  in  a  more  striking  manner  by  deliberately  marrying 
a  young  and  beautiful  lady  instead  of  the  woman  to 
whom  the  club  had  allotted  him.  The  subsequent 
elopement  of  Mrs.  Ramsey  with  a  handsome  but  far 
from  cultured  veterinary  surgeon  made  some  sensa- 
tion at  the  time.  It  is  not  safe,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase, 
to  monkey  with  the  Punishment  Committee.  I  will 
ask  the  Secretary  now  to  read  out  to  us  the  minutes  of 
the  last  meeting." 

The  Secretary,  in  a  dry,  formal  voice,  read  the 
names  of  the  three  members  whom  chance  had  selected 
at  the  last  meeting  and  of  the  three  women  to  whom 
they  had  been  ordered  to  propose  marriage.  Two  of 
the  men  had  been  accepted  and  had  ipso  facto  ceased  to 
be  members  of  the  club.  The  other  man  had  been 
refused. 

The  covered  basket  in  which  the  visiting-cards  had 
been  placed  was  now  brought  forward  and  the  cards 
shaken  up.  The  President  raised  the  cover  sufficiently 
to  admit  his  hand  and  drew  out  three  cards.  Two  of 
the  members  then  investigated  the  remaining  cards  to 
see  that  no  member  had  omitted  to  put  in  his  own  card 
or  had  substituted  that  of  another  member. 

"If  I'm  let  off  this  time,"  said  the  Colonel,  "I'll 
resign  to-night;  I  swear  I  will.  After  all,  the  chances 
are  ten  to  one  in  my  favor."  Again  the  President's 
bell  interrupted  him. 


CLUBS  AND  HEARTS  77 

"I  will  read,"  said  the  President,  "the  names  of  the 
three  members  selected.  The  first  is  Mr.  Reginald 
Holt." 

Mr.  Holt  rose  rapidly  to  his  feet.  He  was  a  wealthy 
stockbroker,  middle-aged,  with  a  tendency  to  corpu- 
lence. He  shook  all  over,  but  he  managed  to  stammer 
out,  "I  shall  do  my  duty." 

"The  second  name,"  the  President  continued,  "is 
the  Rev.  Marcus  Leffingwell." 

Mr.  Leffingwell  answered  smilingly  and  readily.  He 
might  possibly  be  going  to  be  a  martyr,  but  he  was 
a  sanguine  young  man,  with  a  love  for  lost  causes. 

"The  third  name,"  said  the  President — he  paused 
and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  Colonel.  The  Col- 
onel set  his  teeth  and  pulled  himself  together.  He  sat 
bolt  upright  listening  intently.  "The  third  name,"  the 
President  repeated,  "is  Mr.  Richard  Tower." 

Tower  rose  and  murmured  the  formula  of  accept- 
ance in  a  low  voice.  The  Colonel  wiped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  forehead  and  spoke  to  Tower.  Tower 
did  not  hear  him.  He  was  thinking  about  a  girl  in  a 
red  tam-o'-shanter.  The  Colonel  touched  him  on  the 
arm.  "You  may  be  all  right,"  he  said  excitedly;  "the 
woman  may  refuse  you.  One  man  was  refused  last 
time." 

"Yes,"  said  Tower,  smiling  in  rather  a  vacant  way, 
and  did  his  best  to  talk  about  some  other  subject.  In 
the  meantime  the  President  had  consulted  the  register 
kept  by  the  Committee  of  Investigation  of  those  wom- 
en to  whom  it  was  thought  desirable  and  kind  that 
proposals  of  marriage  should  be  made.  If  a  member 
was  not  acquainted  with  the  woman  who  had  been 
chosen  to  be  his  future  wife,  the  Committee  of  In- 
vestigation were  always  able  to  arrange  a  meeting. 


78          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

The  lady  who  had  been  chosen  for  Richard  Tower  was 
Miss  Agatha  Vyse  Lamley. 

Richard  Tower  knew  her  well,  and  knew  that  there 
was  very  little  chance  of  a  refusal.  Miss  Lamley  was 
a  large  and  energetic  lady,  who  belonged  to  numerous 
societies.  She  wore  a  pince-nez  and  was  only  passably 
ill-looking,  but  she  had  the  most  disagreeable  voice  in 
London. 

"Good  night,  Colonel,"  said  Tower.  "I'm  going  to 
slip  off  now.  I  congratulate  you  on  your  escape.  I 
suppose  you'll  be  sending  in  your  resignation?" 

"I  think,"  said  the  Colonel,  "I  must  risk  one  more 
meeting.  It's  the  feeling  of  relief  afterwards — there's 
nothing  like  it.  But  after  next  meeting " 

Richard  Tower  laughed  and  turned  away.  Holt 
was  mixing  a  great  deal  of  brandy  with  a  very  little 
soda-water. 

ii 

ON  the  following  night,  at  another  house  in  the  same 
square,  Richard  Tower  and  a  remarkably  pretty  girl 
crept  stealthily  upstairs.  Below  them  the  music  and 
dance  went  on.  Richard  Tower  knew  the  house,  and 
knew  that  the  children's  schoolroom  upstairs  made 
a  very  good  place  in  which  to  sit  out  a  dance.  As  he 
switched  on  the  light  you  could  see  that  the  girl  was 
angry. 

"I  hate  mysteries,"  she  said.  "First  our  engage- 
ment was  to  be  secret  and  I  was  given  no  reason ;  now 
you  tell  me  that  as  a  consequence  of  something  that 
happened  last  night  you  may  be  compelled  to  break 
off  that  engagement  and  marry  another  woman,  whom 
you  say  you  do  not  love  at  all.  Again  you  give  no 
reason." 


CLUBS  AND  HEARTS  79 

"It's  awfully  hard  to  explain  anything  when  you 
can't,"  said  Richard  dejectedly. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  girl.  "I'm  not  generally  sup- 
posed to  be  an  idiot.  The  engagement  is  broken  off 
now,  and  we  may  as  well  go  downstairs  again.  I  hate 
you  pretty  badly." 

"You  wouldn't  if  you  knew,"  said  Richard.  "Do 
you  think  I  do  this  because  I  like  it?  Do  you  think 
I  love  you  a  shade  less  than  I  did  when  we  were  away 
in  the  country  together?  If  there  was  the  faintest 
possible  chance  that  I  should  ever  cease  to  love  you 
I  should  be  a  happier  man.  The  engagement  must  be 
broken,  as  you  say.  But  if  I  escape — if  this  other 
woman  refuses  me,  then  I  shall  come  back  to  you." 

"Do,  if  it  amuses  you,"  said  the  girl.  "I  shall  refuse 
to  see  you,  of  course.  Stop  where  you  are,  please — 
I'm  going  down  alone.  I'll  get  somebody  to  take  me 
home." 

Richard  Tower  was  well  aware  that  he  was  under 
the  close  observation  of  the  Investigation  Committee. 
It  was  necessary  to  satisfy  them  of  one's  good  faith, 
or  one  came  in  contact  with  the  Punishment  Com- 
mittee, and  they  had  a  diabolical  cleverness  and  were 
not  scrupulous  in  their  work.  If  you  broke  faith  with 
the  club  you  were  punished  by  being  dishonored. 
Major  Delmay  was,  in  fact,  the  most  honorable  of 
men,  but  everybody  believed  that  he  had  cheated  at 
cards.  The  Punishment  Committee  had  arranged  it. 

So  Richard  Tower  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
Miss  Agatha  Vyse  Lamley,  and  after  a  fortnight  wrote 
to  her  a  letter  expressing  in  the  most  fervent  terms  his 
admiration  of  her  and  proposing  marriage.  He  had 
no  hope  at  all.  Years  before  she  had,  in  the  most  deli- 
cate manner  possible,  indicated  a  preference  for  him. 


8o          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

He  remembered  it  with  horror.  She  would  accept. 
And  then  ? 

Then  he  had  decided  on  some  painless  form  of 
suicide.  Things  had  changed  since  Lord  Northberry 
had  first  persuaded  him  to  join  the  club.  He  had,  for 
instance,  played  golf  with  a  remarkably  pretty  girl 
who  wore  a  red  tam-o'-shanter,  and  she  had  quarrelled 
with  him  now.  He  had  his  last  letter  to  her  ready  to 
send,  explaining  all  and  trusting  that  now  and  then 
she  might  have  a  kind  thought  for  the  man  who  loved 
her  and  died  for  her. 

Miss  Lamley's  reply  was  brought  to  him  in  company 
with  other  letters,  as  he  lay  in  bed.  He  told  his  servant 
to  go,  and  then  deliberately  opened  all  the  other  letters 
first.  This,  he  felt,  was  the  strong  thing  to  do. 

Miss  Lamley's  letter  ran  as  follows :  "There  was 
a  time,  though  I  know  you  never  guessed  it,  when 
I  should  have  accepted  gladly  your  declaration  of 
love  and  your  appeal  that  we  should  share  our  lives. 
But  now,  touched  though  I  am,  I  know  it  can  never 
be.  I  belong  to  a  society  of  women — in  fact,  I  am 
the  president  of  it — who  have  been  struck  by  the  nu- 
merical preponderance  of  our  sex  over  yours,  and 
have  agreed  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  their  sisters. 
In  a  word,  we  are  pledged  to  remain  unmarried,  and 
the  penalties  for  breaking  this  pledge  are  of  a  kind 
that  I  dare  not  face.  My  sympathy  and  my  help,  if 
you  will  have  it,  will  always  be  yours,  but  I  cannot 
and  I  dare  not " 

Richard  Tower  stopped  reading  abruptly.  He  went 
round  to  see  a  remarkably  pretty  girl  who  had  said 
that  she  would  refuse  to  see  him.  She  might  possibly 
change  her  mind.  One  never  knows. 


VII 
ONE  STONE 

SHE  believed,  as  all  good  women  do,  that  tobacco 
which  has  been  seized  by  the'  Customs  is  de- 
stroyed in  a  furnace  known  as  the  Queen's  Pipe,  and 
that  auctioneers  are  in  the  habit  of  saying  "Going, 
going,  gone !"  She  firmly  held  that  the  liqueur  known 
as  Benedictine  was  made  by  the  monks  of  that  name, 
and  that  a  good  woman  has  a  legal  right  to  keep  any 
property  that  she  may  find  in  the  street.  She  will  not, 
when  the  time  comes,  doubt  for  one  moment  the 
genuineness  of  the  long  letter  signed  "Mater  Quce  Scit 
Aliquid" — vide  the  autumnal  correspondence,  entitled 
"Are  Babies  Beastly?"  in  the  "Telegraph"  for  the 
year  after  next.  She  was  convinced  at  all  times,  on 
demand  and  without  previous  evidence,  of  the  im- 
morality of  any  artist  and  the  respectability  of  any 
member  of  Parliament. 

Her  husband,  after  the  manner  of  bad  wise  men, 
never  corrected  these  or  any  other  of  her  cherished 
beliefs.  In  the  partnership  of  marriage  a  trusting 
spirit  in  the  feminine  partner  is  a  valuable  asset,  and 
should  be  preserved.  Why  wake  up  a  hunger  for  facts, 
scientific  but  frequently  inconvenient?  Besides,  he 
may  have  found  from  experience  that  the  only  thing 
that  made  absolutely  no  mental  effect  on  his  wife  was 
undeniable  and  unimpeachable  evidence.  It  was  never 

•i 


82          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

sufficiently  picturesque,  and  it  did  not  seem  to  her  to 
be  quite  sportsmanlike. 

But  the  withered  relic  of  an  overworked  conscience 
did  occasionally  disturb  him  in  the  matter  of  Agnes's 
medicine-chest.  Perhaps  it  was  as  much  selfishness  as 
conscience;  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  having  to  give 
evidence  at  the  inquest.  Perhaps  it  was  also  coward- 
ice ;  he  would  as  soon  have  ventured  to  speak  rudely  to 
Bimbi,  in  his  wife's  presence,  as  to  interfere  with  the 
medicine-chest.  Bimbi  was  an  overfed  Persian  cat, 
of  irregular  life,  uncertain  temper,  and  great  beauty, 
and  yet  the  man  did  not  love  her.  I  am  not  trying  to 
defend  the  man;  considering  what  I  have  to  tell  con- 
cerning him,  that  would  be  impossible. 

If  he  considered,  as  he  said  he  did,  that  the  medicine- 
chest  was  a  source  of  danger  to  Agnes,  to  her  children, 
to  her  friends,  and  to  her  servants,  why  did  he  not 
check  it  in  its  early  stages  before  the  passion  for  keep- 
ing a  go-as-you-please  free  dispensary  had  finally  mas- 
tered her?  It  had  begun  years  before,  on  a  peaceful 
and  bright  afternoon  in  June,  when  Agnes  almost 
thought  that  she  had  a  headache.  Her  friend,  Mrs. 
Marston  Wells — a  charming  and  sympathetic  lady — 
still  had  half  a  bottle  left  of  the  only  thing  that  ever 
did  her  hay-fever  any  good.  She  gave  this  to  Agnes, 
and  one  dose  cured  her  completely  in  three  minutes, 
and  she  said  that  she  had  never  seen  anything  like  it. 
She  gave  a  little  to  the  parlormaid  for  her  chapped 
hands,  and  subsequently  the  parlormaid  gave  notice. 
That  was  the  beginning.  That  was  the  time  when  the 
man  ought  to  have  interfered,  if  he  ought  ever  to  have 
interfered  at  all.  He  simply  grinned  bitterly  and  let  it 
go,  which  was  unmanly. 

Then  Agnes  began  to  read  advertisements  of  what 


ONE  STONE  83 

a  prejudiced  medical  profession  is  wont  to  call  quack 
medicines.  She  took  those  advertisements  en  bloc, 
net,  without  reduction.  She  read  how  Lance-Corporal 
Name  Suppressed,  writing  from  South  Africa — a 
vague  but  patriotic  address — said  that  many  a  time 
and  oft  Timson's  Tablets  for  the  Turn  had  stood  be- 
tween him  and  death.  Timson's  Turn  Tablets  were  on 
her  washstand  or  ever  the  sun  had  set.  They  found  a 
fitting  partner  in  Lane's  Lotion  for  the  Languid  on 
the  following  day.  From  these  advertisements  she 
acquired  much  physiological  and  therapeutical  knowl- 
edge. She  learned  the  functions  of  the  pancreas,  pro- 
nounced it  as  a  dissyllable,  and  recognized  the  gravity 
of  life. 

Chemists'  shops  began  to  have  the  fascination  for 
her  that  the  public-house  has  for  the  drunkard.  Even 
on  her  way  to  buy  a  hat,  when  every  moment  is  of 
value — since  it  may  happen  that  another  woman  has 
snapped  up  the  only  hat  you  really  want  one  second 
before  your  arrival — she  would  pause  to  look  at  a 
tempting  array  of  tabloids  in  phials.  She  would  go 
on — hesitate — turn  back — purchase.  It  is  useful  to 
have  these  things  in  the  house.  Also,  as  she  often 
observed,  one  never  knows.  Likewise,  the  world  is 
full  of  symptoms,  and  if  you  go  to  look  for  them  you 
will  find  them.  Mrs.  Marston  Wells  caught  the  infec- 
tion and  bought  medicines  furiously;  Agnes  at  once 
increased  her  armament  to  meet  competition.  Her 
collection  now  occupied  a  cupboard,  always  referred 
to  as  the  medicine-chest.  Their  method  of  treatment 
was  very  similar.  The  last  purchase  was  almost  al- 
ways the  remedy  indicated.  Their  rivalry  was  a 
friendly  one;  they  often  met  and  talked  pills  together 
pleasantly.  Sometimes  an  exchange  would  be  effected 


84          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

— so  many  chlorate  of  potash  lozenges  for  a  menthol 
cone.  And  the  trusting  spirit  grew  more  grandly  bril- 
liant than  ever;  Agnes  was  ready  to  diagnose  and 
treat  anything  from  a  chilblain  to  Landry's  paralysis. 
It  was  the  knowledge  of  this  that  made  the  man 
anxious. 

One  morning  his  mind  was  so  much  occupied  with 
a  picture  of  what  his  wife  would  look  like  in  the  dock 
that  he  forgot  to  put  his  cigarette-case  in  his  pocket. 
He  discovered  the  omission  with  something  of  a  shock 
in  the  hall  just  as  he  was  going  out.  He  put  down  his 
hat  on  the  hall-table  and  went  back  for  the  cigarettes. 
When  he  returned  he  found  that  Bimbi  had  swept  his 
hat  off  the  table  on  to  the  floor,  and  was  now  engaged 
in  a  patient  but  fruitless  endeavor  to  get  into  ambush 
in  the  hat's  interior.  She  only  succeeded  in  scratching 
him  once  while  he  was  removing  her.  According  to  the 
man's  own  statement,  the  cat  then  fell  down  the  base- 
ment stairs.  That — or  something  more  or  less  re- 
sembling it — is  not  unlikely. 

At  tea  that  afternoon,  just  as  Agnes  was  pouring 
the  rest  of  the  cream  into  a  saucer  for  Bimbi,  the  man 
observed  with  a  touch  of  gentle  melancholy  that  he 
was  afraid  that  the  cat  was  not  well.  He  was  asked 
to  explain  himself  further. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "she  was  going  on  in  a  very  queer 
way  in  the  hall  this  morning.  Seemed  awfully  ex- 
cited." 

"Yes,"  said  his  wife,  "these  Persians  have  such 
delicate  nervous  constitutions.  That  is  why  I  tell  you 
that  you  must  never  speak  sharply  to  her.  You  must 
try  to  remember  that  Bimbi  is  not  a  dog." 

The  man  said  that  he  would  try  not  to  forget.    "I 


ONE  STONE  85 

suppose,"  he  added,  "you  haven't  got  anything  in 
your  medicine-chest  you  could  give  her." 

"But  certainly  I  have.  I  can  see  from  the  way 
her  ear's  twitching  that  she's  nervously  upset.  What 
she  requires  is  a  little  bromide.  She'll  take  it  in  the 
cream  and  never  know  anything  about  it.  I'll  be  back 
in  a  moment." 

No  sooner  had  she  left  the  room  than  the  brute  to 
whom  she  was  married  took  a  very  small  bottle  from 
his  pocket  and  poured  a  few  drops  of  it  into  the 
cream.  Then  he  said,  "Good-bye,  Bimbi." 

His  wife  had  changed  the  lines  of  her  treatment 
on  the  stairs.  She  returned  with  a  ten-grain  antipyrine 
powder  and  a  digestive  globule.  She  put  these  into 
the  cream  and  invited  Bimbi  to  drink.  Bimbi  with 
an  affected  air  of  bored  conciliation  began  upon  the 
cream,  and  doubtless  would  have  finished  it  but  for 
the  fact  that  she  had  to  stop  in  the  middle  in  order 
to  die.  She  died  with  great  rapidity  and  precision. 

"Bimbi!"  cried  Agnes.    "I've  killed  Bimbi." 

"Looks  like  it,"  said  the  liar  and  murderer  whom 
Agnes  called  her  husband.  "You  ought  really  to  be 
more  careful  how  you  play  about  with  those  drugs. 
Suppose  you  had  given  that  dose  to  one  of  the  chil- 
dren." 

She  was  a  little  late  for  dinner  that  night;  she  had 
been  busy  destroying  the  contents  of  the  medicine- 
chest,  and  had  not  noticed  the  time. 

"I  suppose,"  said  this  poltroon  next  morning  at 
breakfast,  "I  had  better  look  in  at  the  cat-shop  some- 
time to-day,  and  get  you  some  sort  of  an  animal  to  take 
the  place  of " 


86          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"No,  no!"  she  interrupted.  "No  cat  can  ever  be 
quite  what  Bimbi  was." 

Let  me  do  plain  justice  to  the  blackguard  whose 
actions  it  is  my  painful  task  to  relate.  In  reply  he 
refrained  from  saying  what  he  thought.  Also  he  gave 
Agnes  her  head  in  Regent  Street  that  afternoon,  and 
she  bought  a  bronze  Buddha,  a  long  turquoise  chain, 
and  some  India-red  matting  wherewith  to  culture  the 
servants'  bedrooms — which  things  are  a  comfort  and 
consolation  in  time  of  bereavement. 

And  he  dropped  that  little  bottle  into  the  canal,  and 
told  the  man  who  accused  him  of  looking  pleased  with 
himself  that  he  had  just  killed  two  birds  with  one 
stone.  Pressed  to  explain  himself  further,  he  said  that 
he  spoke  in  parables,  and  that  these  things  were  an 
alligator.  What  can  you  say  for  a  man  like  that? 
Nothing,  of  course.  Let's  say  it. 


VIII 
GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS 

GENERAL,  age  twenty-four,  can  cook,  Christian, 
clean,  honest,  obliging,  good  character, 
eighteen  months  in  last  place — and  that's  me. 

Ah,  and  a  very  nice  place  it  was,  too.  The  money 
were  no  more  than  seventeen,  and  if  that's  not  too  little 
I  can  swear  as  it's  not  too  much.  But  then  he  were  a 
gentleman,  and  so  were  she,  and  that's  a  thing  worth 
twice  thinking  of.  Riches  is  not  everything.  Why, 
there's  my  own  sister,  kitchen-maid  in  a  house  where 
they're  rolling  in  money,  but  I  wouldn't  change  with 
her.  The  other  day,  the  cook  being  short  of  parsley, 
my  sister  pops  into  the  kitchen-garden  to  get  some,  and 
there's  the  master  smoking  his  cigar.  "O,  damn  your 
eyes,"  he  says,  "what  are  you  doing  here?"  And  she, 
being  frightened,  says,  "It's  the  parsley,  sir."  "Well," 
says  he,  "you're  a  pretty  little  devil,  and  so  you  can 
have  some."  Pretty  she  is,  too,  but  I  couldn't  stomach 
such  treatment  if  I  were  her.  But  there  it  is — she 
stops  because  the  cook's  took  a  fancy  to  her,  and 
teaches  her  to  cook  them  French  dishes.  "Coatlets  de 
mowtun  ally  refarm" — there's  a  name  for  you,  and 
from  what  she  tells  me,  nothing  in  the  world  but  veal 
chops  with  a  sweet  sauce ! 

No,  I  preferred  my  place,  and  told  her  so.  As  I  say, 
he  were  a  gentleman  whichever  way  you  took  him. 
He  did  paint  pictures  in  colors,  but  then  I  don't 

87 


88          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

think  he  ever  tried  to  sell  them.  At  any  rate,  nobody 
ever  bought  them.  Very  pretty  they  was  though,  and 
showed  he'd  got  a  knack.  She  was  a  perfect  lady,  too, 
and  yet  she  had  a  kind  heart.  And  in  her  evening 
gown — for  it  was  late  dinner  every  night,  though 
small — she  looked  more  like  a  photograph  than  like 
anything  earthly.  The  house  was  just  a  cottage  with 
a  piece  of  garden  to  it,  and  handy  for  boating  on  the 
river,  to  which  they  were  very  partial — almost  living 
on  that  river  in  the  summer-time.  Many  a  time,  when 
he  and  she  were  out  in  the  punt,  I've  stepped  into  that 
little  bit  of  garden  and  seen  the  sun  shining  and  the 
spring  onions  coming  through,  and  it  all  looked  so 
pretty,  and  the  feeling  of  pleasantness  was  such,  I 
wouldn't  have  called  the  Queen  my  uncle,  as  they  say. 
It  were  a  comfortable  place  too — all  the  washing  put 
out,  no  interfering,  no  nagging,  no  scraping,  and  every 
now  and  again  the  charwoman  to  help  you.  Why  did 
I  ever  leave  it? 

Well,  that  was  along  of  William.  I  means  William 
the  canary,  and  not  William  the  carpenter,  who  is  my 
young  man,  and  never  gave  me  a  moment's  sorrow  yet, 
and  it  would  be  worse  for  him  if  he  did. 

I  hadn't  been  there  more  nor  my  month  when 
she  came  into  the  kitchen,  and  she  said  about  the 
dinner,  which  I  remember  as  if  it  was  yesterday,  and 
was  lambs'  sweetbreads.  And  then  she  said — 

"Are  you  happy  here,  Emma  ?" 

Now,  there  were  a  question  as  I  had  never  had  put 
to  me  before — your  happiness  not  being  a  thing  as 
you  can  expect  anybody  to  care  about  except  yourself. 
So  I  were  rather  taken  aback. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  I  says,  "it's  a  nice  place,  and  very 


GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS  89 

kind  of  you  to  ask,  but  take  it  how  you  will,  it's  not 
as  if  you  kept  two  of  us." 

"No,"  says  she,  with  one  of  them  little  sighs  of 
hers,  "it's  not.  Do  you  find  it  lonely?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "being  engaged  to  William,  there 
ain't  so  much  talk  going  on  at  the  back-door  as  there 
might  have  been  otherwise,  which  is  only  right.  And 
yet,  when  you're  single-handed,  what  you  don't  say 
to  them  at  the  back-door  you  don't  say  to  nobody, 
which  is  what  stifles  you." 

"Ah!"  she  says,  "would  you  like  to  have  a  pet  of 
your  own  to  keep  in  the  kitchen — a  cat  or  a  dog?" 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  says  I,  "but  cats  is  faithless, 
and  dogs  runs  to  fat  when  not  exercised;  but  if  I 
might  mention  it,  a  canary  has  always  been  my  am- 
bition. And  if  that  kitchen-window  don't  seem  to  ask 
for  a  cage  to  hang  on  it !" 

She  smiled  and  said  I  should  have  a  canary,  and 
next  day  she  went  up  to  London  and  brought  back  the 
whole  thing  complete.  The  cage  were  handsome,  and 
the  bird  were  pale  yellow. 

Yes,  I  was  pleased  to  get  it,  and  I  was  thankful 
for  it,  and  I  called  it  William  after  the  other  William, 
and  I  saw  that  it  took  its  seed  and  water,  and  was 
nicely  kept.  But  it's  a  bitter  thing  to  think  of  now — 
I  didn't  value  that  blessed  bird  at  the  first  as  he  should 
have  been  valued.  We  was  friendly,  but  nothing  more. 

You  see,  just  at  first  he  wouldn't  sing,  and  he  may 
have  been  a  bit  shy.  But  it  was  more  cleverness  than 
shyness.  He  knew,  as  well  as  I  knew,  that  I  wanted 
him  to  sing;  and  what  he  said  to  himself  was,  "I'll 
just  see  first  if  the  place  suits  me.  If  they  make  it 
worth  my  while  to  sing  I'll  sing.  If  not,  I'll  sulk,  and 
then  they'll  sell  me."  It  was  only  natural.  Birds 


90          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

have  to  do  the  best  they  can  for  themselves,  just  the 
same  as  human  beings. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  one  day,  as  I  were  cleaning  the 
silver,  he  give  two  or  three  little  twiddly  chirps,  then 
come  hopping  along  to  the  side  of  the  cage  and  looked 
down  at  me  out  of  his  little  sharp  eyes,  to  see  how  I 
was  taking  it. 

"Very  well,  William,"  says  I.  "If  you  can  sing 
you  shall  sing,  else  no  sugar." 

He  thought  for  a  minute,  and  shook  his  head,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "No,  I  can't  see  any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  oblige."  Then  he  hopped  down,  took  a  sip 
of  water,  hopped  up  again,  wiped  his  mouth  on  the 
wooden  perch,  cleared  his  throat,  and  began.  I  took 
his  time  by  the  kitchen  clock,  and  he  went  for  seven 
minutes,  and  you  could  see  by  the  way  he  stopped 
suddenly,  shook  his  head,  and  stamped  his  claw  on  the 
perch,  that  there  was  a  lot  more  to  come  only  he 
couldn't  remember  it.  He'd  let  himself  get  out  of 
practice.  However,  not  to  discourage  him,  I  gave 
him  a  little  bit  of  sugar. 

After  that  there  was  no  more  trouble  about  the 
singing.  He'd  found  as  he  could  make  himself  com- 
fortable in  the  place,  and  so  he  meant  to  stop.  And 
when  he  once  settled  that,  there  was  no  more  hanging 
backward.  And  he  never  had  any  of  that  silly  vanity 
that  you'll  see  in  some  people,  though  he  was  but  a 
bird,  while  they  may  have  Christian  homes  and  ad- 
vantages showered  on  them  like  water  on  a  duck's 
back.  There's  many  a  woman  won't  sing  at  all  if 
there's  much  talking  going  on,  though  speech  is  free 
to  all,  and  we  might  all  speak  at  once  but  for  the  in- 
convenience. That's  what  I  call  silly,  foolish  vanity, 
and  setting  of  one's  self  up  like  a  idol.  There  was 


GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS  91 

nothing  of  that  about  William.  He'd  sing  when  there 
was  coffee-grinding  going  on,  and  sing  the  louder  for 
it.  Bless  his  heart! 

You  may  be  sure  it  wasn't  long  before  he  and  me 
was  as  good  friends  as  there  was  in  the  world.  In  a 
week  he'd  learned  to  take  hemp-seed  out  of  my  fingers. 
And  clever!  Well,  once  I  put  a  bit  of  sugar  in  the 
bottom  of  his  glass,  when  he  wasn't  looking,  and  cov- 
ered it  up  with  seed.  When  he'd  eaten  up  the  seed 
on  the  top,  and  come  across  that  sugar,  he  were  so 
startled  that  he  regular  jumped.  However,  I  saw  him 
wink  one  eye,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  must  remember 
this  little  trick."  Next  time  his  seed-glass  wanted 
filling,  I  did  the  same  thing  again.  But  this  time  the 
glass  were  no  sooner  in  his  cage  than  he  went  right  up 
to  it,  dug  down  through  the  seed,  and  fetched  that  bit 
of  sugar  out.  But  there,  if  I  get  talking  about  his 
cleverness  there'd  be  no  end.  As  I  said  to  Mrs.  Am- 
royd,  which  is  the  charwoman,  I  said,  "It's  a  comfort 
to  think  that  if  I'm  took,  and  brief  life  is  here  our 
portion,  William's  clever  enough  to  provide  for  him- 
self." "Oh,  yes!"  she  says,  "carpenters  can  always 
make  their  money,"  confusing  him  with  the  other 
William,  as  she  was  always  doing,  and  in  a  way  as 
would  sometimes  bring  the  blush  to  my  cheek,  allusion 
having  been  made  to  the  canary's  bath  which  she  mis- 
took different. 

With  the  affection  I  had  for  that  canary,  the  wonder 
is  how  ever  I  came  to  leave  the  door  of  his  cage  un- 
hitched. But  the  front  and  the  back  bell  going  simul- 
taneous, and  taking  off  my  attention,  I  must  have  left 
it  undone  in  my  flurry.  Anyhow,  just  as  me  and  Mrs. 
Amroyd  was  sitting  to  our  teas  that  bird  got  out. 
At  first  I  thought  he'd  get  frightened  and  beat  his 


92          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

blessed  heart  out  against  the  window.  But  not  he — 
he  knew  too  much  for  that.  He  came  straight  down 
on  to  the  table,  and  began  pecking  up  crumbs.  "Well, 
Mister  Impertinence,"  I  says,  "you  know  how  to  look 
after  yourself."  And  I  held  out  my  finger  to  him, 
and  he'd  have  hopped  on  to  it,  if  Mrs.  Amroyd  hadn't 
happened  to  give  a  sneeze,  which  scared  him,  though 
not  done  malicious.  However,  he  didn't  go  far,  and  he 
was  soon  back  and  at  work  on  those  crumbs  again. 
Yes,  he  had  got  a  cheek  and  no  doubt  about  it,  and  I 
don't  blame  him  for  it  neither.  For  cheek  is  what  gets 
you  on  in  the  world  nowadays.  Why,  if  I  had  the 
cheek  of  that  bird,  I  might  be  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 
And  yet  he  knew  where  to  draw  the  line,  did  William. 
When  I  got  the  cage  down,  and  stood  it  on  the  table 
with  the  door  open,  he  understood  that  he'd  got  to  go 
back,  and  let  me  catch  him  and  put  him  back  without 
so  much  as  a  murmur. 

After  that  I  used  to  let  him  out  frequent,  seeing 
as  he  could  be  trusted,  and  the  way  he'd  follow  me 
about  that  kitchen  was  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the 
earth,  and  got  to  be  talked  of,  too,  through  the  trades- 
men's carts  having  seen  it  with  their  own  eyes  when 
calling  at  the  back-door.  He  was  a  regular  proverb 
in  the  place,  William  was,  and  if  he'd  been  my  own 
son  I  couldn't  have  been  more  proud  of  him.  The 
only  anxiety  I  ever  had  about  him  was  along  of  Mrs. 
Chalk's  sandy  cat,  which  would  sneak  round  my 
kitchen-windows  by  the  hour ;  and  that  were  soon 
over. 

Keep  those  windows  shut  always  you  couldn't.  For 
it  takes  a  fire  to  roast  a  joint  in  the  summer  just  as 
much  as  in  the  winter,  and  living  in  a  Turkish  bath 
is  what  no  Christian  could  be  asked  to  do.  Still,  it 


GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS  93 

gives  me  a  feeling  of  nervousness,  knowing  as  cats  are 
artful.  And  that  sandy  cat  were  a  bit  too  artful  for 
his  own  safety.  One  morning  I  had  just  come  down 
from  the  upstairs  room,  and  with  my  hand  on  the 
kitchen  door  I  heard  a  crash.  I  rushed  in  and  saw 
what  it  was.  The  cat  had  got  in  at  the  window,  and 
made  a  jump  for  the  cage.  In  half  a  second  I  had 
shut  window  and  door,  so  that  Mister  Sandy  couldn't 
get  out.  Then  I  had  a  look  at  William  and  saw  that 
he  wasn't  hurt,  only  frightened.  And  then  I  picked 
up  the  poker,  and  the  next  ten  minutes  kept  me  busy. 

I  had  to  report  a  vegetable-dish  and  two  wine- 
glasses broke,  but  I  didn't  grudge  them.  The  cat  I 
buried  that  night,  unbeknown,  back  of  the  rhubarb. 
Questions  was  asked,  and  ans\vered  in  a  way  as  you 
might  call  putting  off.  That  is,  Mrs.  Chalk  says  to  me, 
"Have  you  seen  our  sandy  cat?"  I  says,  "Yes,  I 
saw  him  in  the  garden  last  night."  So  I  did.  That 
was  when  I  was  burying  him.  She  said,  "You  didn't 
throw  stones  at  him,  nor  do  anything  to  scare  him 
away,  for  he's  lost?"  "No,"  I  says,  "I  wouldn't 
do  such  a  thing."  And  no  more  I  would,  for  where's 
the  sense  in  throwing  stones  at  a  dead  cat?  "Why," 
I  says,  "he  may  stop  in  the  garden  for  ever,  for  all  I 
care,"  which  were  the  solemn  truth,  though  artful. 

As  I  said,  William  wasn't  hurt,  but  he'd  had  a  nasty 
shock.  For  weeks  he  was  that  shaken  you  couldn't 
get  him  to  stir  out  of  his  cage.  And  when  he  did 
venture  out  at  last,  the  least  little  noise  seemed  to 
put  him  all  of  a  flutter.  However,  time  and  patience, 
and  good  feeding,  brought  him  round.  He  were  such 
a  companion  to  me  as  you  wouldn't  believe.  Every 
morning  as  soon  as  I  were  down,  he'd  start  chattering 
to  me.  Often  and  often  I've  told  that  bird  things  as  I 


94          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

wanted  to  say,  but  wouldn't  have  told  to  no  living 
human  being;  for  I  knowed  he  wouldn't  pass  them 
on,  or  even  let  slip  hint  of  them  accidental,  which  is 
what  the  best  of  us  is  liable  to.  And  he  looked  at  you 
that  intelligent,  when  you  was  talking,  you  could  see 
as  he  understood  every  word.  If  you  stopped,  he'd 
give  a  sort  of  chirrup,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Well,  go 
on.  What  next?" 

For  two  years  he  were  a  joy  and  a  comfort  to  me, 
and  then  he  were  took.  He  got  a  bit  of  a  cold  some- 
how, and  I  give  a  shilling  to  a  woman  I  knew  with 
experience  in  fowls  to  come  and  have  a  look  at  him. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  him,  she  says,  "We'll  do  all  we  can 
do,  but  it's  more  serious  than  you  think.  For  what 
he's  got  is  congestion  of  the  chest,  to  which  all  them 
foreign  birds  is  partial."  Well,  we  gave  him  medicine, 
and  he  took  it,  for  to  the  last  he'd  eat  or  drink  almost 
anything,  such  was  his  desire  to  please.  And  he  were 
well  nursed,  too,  and  I'd  bank  up  the  kitchen  fire  to 
last  through  the  night,  and  never  grudge  the  coals. 
A  comfort  to  me,  too,  it  is  to  think  as  everything  was 
done,  for  one  night  I  could  see  as  the  end  were  near 
and  sat  up  with  him,  and  at  half-past  eleven  he  were 
stone  dead,  if  ever  a  bird  was,  and  me  broken-hearted. 
I  wore  black  for  him,  too,  which  was  the  same  I  had 
when  my  aunt  was  took,  and  that  started  Mrs.  Am- 
royd.  "Why,"  she  said,  "to  put  it  on  for  a  bird,  it  do 
seem  to  me  downright  irreligious." 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "he  were  only  a  bird,  nor  born  to 
any  high  estate,  as  the  hymn  says,  but  he  were  a  better 
friend  to  me  nor  ever  my  aunt  was,  which  was  wrang- 
ling from  morning  till  night.  And  so  the  less  you  says, 
Mrs.  Amroyd,  the  better  for  all  parties,  or  you  may 


95 

live  to  lose  a  friend  yourself,  which  would  be  only  a 
judgment." 

And  of  course  I  give  notice.  I  couldn't  keep  coming 
into  that  kitchen  where  he'd  always  been,  and  never 
would  be  any  more,  not  though  it  had  been  a  king's 
palace.  So  I  said  as  I'd  leave  at  the  end  of  my  month, 
and  no  entreaties,  nor  the  offer  of  another  canary, 
though  well  meant,  could  move  me.  I  was  sorry  to 
part  with  them,  and  sorry  to  leave  the  place,  but  it 
had  to  be. 

Ah!  I  shall  never  find  another  place  like  it.  As 
a  rule,  a  gentleman  has  money,  and  then  he  don't 
do  on  one  general.  All  I  has  to  look  forward  to  is 
over-work,  under-feeding,  and  nagging,  and  miseries. 
But  all  the  same,  I  couldn't  stop  after  William  had 
gone. 

What  the  other  William  says  is,  don't  take  a  place 
at  all.  For  the  way  he  looks  at  it,  if  you  makes  your 
Christmas  holiday  your  honeymoon,  that's  all  a  saving, 
and  to  be  thought  of  when  a  couple  ain't  Rothschilds 
and  the  Bank  of  England,  which  I  don't  deny  is  sense. 

However,  that's  a  thing  as  needs  thinking  over. 
Still,  he  had  the  canary  stuffed  at  his  own  expense,  and 
give  me  in  a  glass  case,  and  that's  a  sign  of  a  feeling 
heart.  I  dare  say  as  I  might  do  worse. 


IX 

THE  BOY   AND   THE  PESSIMIST 

"TT  TELL,"  said  Mr.  Archibald  Bunby,  M.A.,  prin- 
V  V  cipal  of  that  excellent  preparatory  school, 
Redhurst,  "there  the  matter  stands.  You  can  take  it 
or  you  can  leave  it,  and  if  you  leave  it  I've  very  little 
doubt  'in  my  own  mind  that  Gibbing  will  take  it — 
snap  at  it,  in  fact.  If  you  take  it — you  aren't  obliging 
me  in  any  way — you  remain  at  Redhurst  during  the 
holidays,  and  in  return  you  receive  your  board  and 
lodging  free  and  a  five-pound  note  at  the  end  of  it. 
Why,  man,  you  aren't  even  asked  to  do  any  teaching; 
all  you  have  to  do  is  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  boy  gener- 
ally. And,  so  long  as  you  don't  smoke  actually  in  the 
presence  of  the  boy,  I  will  relax  the  smoking  rule.  I'd 
sooner  you  took  it  than  Gibbing,  because  I  consider 
you  to  be  the  more  trustworthy  man,  but  there's  no 
obligation  about  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  offering 
you  an  uncommonly  good  thing  for  yourself.  There's 
scores  of  men  like  you  who'd  be  only  too  glad  to  get  a 
holiday  engagement  on  any  terms." 

Yes,  that  was  true,  and  Elton  knew  it.  And  it  was 
of  some  detestable  importance  to  him  that  he  should 
not  have  to  keep  himself  for  seven  weeks  on  his  term's 
salary,  but,  on  the  contrary,  should  find  that  salary 
augmented  by  five  pounds. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  rather  despondently — he  gen- 

96 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST      97 

erally  seemed  rathed  despondent — "I  accept.  Rough 
on  the  boy,  rather,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Well,  what  else  is  to  happen  to  him?  He  can't 
go  to  his  people  in  India.  He  can't  go  to  his  uncle's 
house,  because  they've  got  the  whooping-cough  there. 
If  Maynham  caught  it  that  would  mean  losing  a  term's 
work — and  it's  most  important  that  he  should  not  lose 
even  a  day's  work  just  now.  As  I  said,  I  don't  ask 
you  to  teach  him  anything  during  the  holidays,  but 
still  a  little  grounding  in  Latin  grammar — Latin  gram- 
mar especially — wouldn't  do  the  boy  any  harm,  and 
might  help  to  pass  the  time  for  you." 

"Very  well,"  Elton  repeated. 

Bunby  was  not  quite  satisfied.  He  wanted  grati- 
tude. He  would  always  do  anything  to  get  gratitude, 
except  deserve  it.  He  paced  up  and  down  his  study, 
stroking  his  red  beard.  "You'll  be  very  comfortable, 
you  know,"  he  reminded  Elton.  "You'll  have  the  as- 
sistant-masters' sitting-room  all  to  yourself,  and 
Maynham,  of  course,  will  play  about  in  the  day-room. 
Every  now  and  then  you'll  just  see  that  he's  going  on 
all  right,  of  course.  As  for  meals,  you'll  have  them 
together,  and — though  there'll  only  just  be  you  two — 
they'll  be  on  exactly  the  same  scale  as  during  term- 
time.  Ah!  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  the  under- 
masters  are  fed  at  some  private  schools?" 

Elton  bit  his  lip.  It  galled  him  rather  to  be  made 
to  feel  like  a  canary. 

"I  could  give  you  cases,"  Bunby  went  on,  "but, 
however,  I'll  say  no  more.  It's  understood  that  you 
stop,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  it's  a  very  nice  little 
windfall  for  you." 

Elton  gave  him  the  thanks  he  wanted,  feeling  that 
he  wouldn't  be  happy  until  he  got  them.  He  had  got 


98          STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

into  the  habit  of  doing  anything  he  could  to  please 
Bunby.  He  was  paid  to  please  Bunby. 

Then  Elton  went  back  to  the  assistant-masters'  sit- 
ting-room. Gibbing,  the  English  master,  was  there 
making  cocoa  over  the  gas.  To  him  Elton  related  how 
Bunby  had  made  the  offer,  and  he  had  accepted  it. 

"Poor  devil !"  said  Gibbing. 

"Poor  devil  yourself!"  retorted  Elton,  irritably. 
"When  I  want  your  pity,  I'll  ask  for  it." 

"Kettle's  boiling,"  said  Gibbing,  unmoved.  "Have 
a  cup?" 

"No,"  said  Elton,  turning  his  back  on  him.  He  was 
not  paid  to  please  Gibbing. 

Gibbing  explored  the  bottom  of  the  cocoa-tin  with 
a  spoon.  It  returned  barely  full. 

"It's  just  as  well  you  won't,"  he  remarked.  "I 
believe  these  beastly  servants  sneak  our  cocoa  when 
they  do  the  room  in  the  morning." 

"They  never  do  'do  the  room'  as  you  call  it,"  replied 
Elton.  There  were  moments  when  he  realized  just  as 
acutely  as  if  it  had  been  perfectly  new  to  him,  the 
hopeless  sordidness  of  the  life.  He  had  come  upon  one 
of  those  moments  now;  he  felt  crushed,  and  yet  re- 
bellious; angry,  and  yet  humiliated.  For  the  sake  of 
five  pounds  he  was  going  to  surrender  seven  weeks  of 
his  independence,  and  become  a  kind  of  male  nurse- 
maid. And  it  was  for  this  that  one  took  a  degree  at 
Cambridge!  He  did  not  at  the  moment  feel  well  dis- 
posed towards  Maynham.  He  relieved  his  feelings  by 
being  distinctly  offensive  to  Gibbing,  who  drank  his 
cocoa  and  paid  very  little  attention  to  the  offensiveness. 

The  morning  of  the  general  departure  came.  Before 
it  was  light  the  heavy  luggage  carts  were  crunching 


99 

the  gravel  drive;  the  trunks  had  all  been  piled  in  the 
hall  the  night  before,  surveyed  with  satisfaction  by 
many  small  boys  as  evidence  that  the  holidays  had 
really  come  at  last.  There  was  an  exceptionally  early 
breakfast  for  two  or  three  boys  that  were  to  catch  an 
exceptionally  early  train.  Then,  an  hour  later,  the 
majority  followed  with  their  coat-collars  turned  up 
and  joy  in  their  hearts,  and  calculations  of  the  amounts 
that  they  would  save  out  of  their  travelling  money  in 
their  heads.  Later  still,  Gibbing  also  went,  having 
himself  conveyed  to  the  station  in  a  two-shilling  fly, 
because  the  boys  walked,  and  he  thought  it  well  to 
mark  distinctions.  Last  of  all,  after  many  and  minute 
instructions  to  Elton,  Mr.  Archibald  Bunby  drove 
off  to  his  favorite  holiday  occupation  of  being  a  bore 
in  a  boarding-house — there  were  half  a  dozen  of  these 
establishments,  in  as  many  seaside  resorts,  that  shared 
in  and  dreaded  his  patronage.  He  liked  to  collate 
them ;  his  favorite  study  was  comparative  price  lists. 

Elton  sat  up  in  the  assistant-masters'  sitting-room. 
He  was  smoking  the  first  pipe  of  the  holidays,  which 
was  something;  Gibbing  was  gone,  which  was  also 
something;  Bunby  was  gone,  which  was  even  more. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  himself  was  remaining, 
and  the  many  orders  that  Bunby  had  given  him 
rankled  in  his  mind.  He  pulled  out  one  of  his  own 
visiting-cards.  On  it  was  engraved  "Mr.  Eustace  El- 
ton." He  added  the  letters  B.A.,  in  pencil,  and  under- 
neath the  name  wrote  "Caretaker  and  nursemaid  in 
the  service  of  Archibald  Bunby,  Esq."  He  surveyed 
this  with  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction  in  insulting  him- 
self, and  then  dropped  it  on  the  fire  and  swore  under 
his  breath.  The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  five, 
and  reminded  him  that  it  was  tea-time.  In  the  big 


ioo        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

dining-hall  there  were  three  long  tables.  In  term-time 
they  were  rilled ;  now  Elton  and  Tommy  Maynham  had 
the  place  to  themselves.  Their  voices  rang  strangely 
in  the  empty  room.  A  small  white  tablecloth,  spread 
across  one  end  of  one  table,  was  an  unusually  unattrac- 
tive oasis  in  a  desert.  Tommy  was  not  a  particularly 
beautiful  boy.  His  countenance  was  cheerful,  healthy, 
and  freckled.  He  was  popular,  simple-minded,  and 
knew  more  about  birds'  eggs  than  he  did  about  books. 
Elton  supposed  that  he  ought  to  say  a  word  or  two  to 
the  boy,  although  he  did  not  want  to  encourage  him 
to  chatter  all  through  meals. 

"Well,  Maynham,"  he  said,  "they've  left  us  behind, 
haven't  they?"  Tommy  beamed.  "You  don't  look 
much  put  out  about  it,  anyway." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Tommy;  "I've  had  rather  a  good 
time.  I  got  three  rides  on  the  luggage  carts,  and  as 
Mr.  Gibbing's  cab  was  coming  back  from  the  station 
the  man  gave  me  a  lift,  too.  That  makes  four  rides 
and  nothing  to  pay.  One  would  sooner  have  gone,  of 
course.  Wouldn't  you?" 

This  was  unfortunate,  because  it  reminded  Elton 
of  his  servitude. 

"But  still,"  Tommy  added,  "there's  lots  of  things 
one  can  do  when  one's  alone.  I  dare  say  it  won't 
be  so  bad." 

Elton  had  brought  an  English  translation  of  a  vol- 
ume of  Schopenhauer  down  to  tea  with  him.  He 
opened  it  and  began  to  read.  Once  or  twice  Tommy 
ventured  on  a  remark,  and  Elton  answered  in  a  slightly 
absent-minded  kind  of  way.  At  the  end  of  tea  he  said 
to  Tommy: 

"Look  here,  Maynham,  during  the  holidays  you  can 
always  bring  a  book  in  at  tea  or  dinner  if  you  like." 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST    101 

Tommy  thanked  him.  Reading  on  these  sacred 
occasions  was  strictly  forbidden  during  term-time,  and 
the  removal  of  any  prohibition  was  to  be  taken  as 
a  treat.  This  idea  was  so  firmly  rooted  in  Tommy's 
mind  that  he  almost  forgot  that  he  much  preferred 
talking  to  reading. 

Mr.  Archibald  Bunby  had,  before  he  left,  told  Elton 
that  breakfast  would  have  to  be  an  hour  later  during 
the  holidays. 

"The  servants  have  suggested  it,  and  if  I  don't 
make  things  as  easy  for  them  as  I  can  while  I'm  away 
they'll  leave,  or  want  more  wages,  or  something.  So 
you'll  breakfast  at  nine.  And  I  say,  Elton,  don't  ring 
for  anything  if  you  can  help  it.  It's  only  a  few  steps 
from  the  dining-hall  to  the  kitchen,  and  you  can  very 
well  go  yourself  if  they've  forgotten  anything." 

Elton  now  passed  this  information  on  to  Tommy, 
with  such  modifications  as  self-respect  demanded. 

"I've  told  the  servants,  Maynham,  that  we  won't 
breakfast  before  nine.  I  never  do  in  the  holidays, 
myself,  and  I  dare  say  you  won't  object  to  an  extra 
hour  in  bed." 

Here  was  a  further  relaxation,  and  another  good 
reason  why  Tommy  should  have  felt  pleased  with  the 
way  things  were  going.  His  uncle  had  written  to  him 
to  cheer  him  up,  and  console  him  for  his  stay  at  Red- 
hurst  during  the  holidays.  The  letter  had  contained 
a  remark  that  "When  things  seem  bad,  there's  all 
the  more  reason  for  making  the  best  of  them,"  which 
was  perhaps  sensible;  it  also  contained  postal  orders 
for  two  pounds,  which  was  certainly  lavish.  Tommy 
had  naturally  a  contented  disposition.  He  had  also 
an  inventive  mind,  and  for  days  past  he  had  been 
devising  occupations  for  his  solitude  in  the  holidays. 


102        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

After  tea  Tommy  went  off  to  the  day-room.  It  was 
a  large  room,  furnished  with  two  long  tables,  four  long 
benches,  a  set  of  lockers,  and  one  chair — all  in  pine 
wood.  It  also  contained  a  piano,  in  walnut,  but  out  of 
tune,  for  the  benefit  of  those  boys  who  took  music. 
The  room  was  warmed  by  hot-water  pipes.  It  looked 
out  on  the  back  wall  of  Mr.  Bunby's  stable,  and  it  was 
not  particularly  cheerful. 

It  was  lit  by  gas  jets  without  globes,  two  as  a  gen- 
eral rule.  The  servants  had — by  Mr.  Bunby's  direc- 
tions— only  lit  one  of  them  that  night.  It  had  been 
clear  to  Mr.  Bunby's  economical  mind  that  where  there 
was  only  one  boy,  luxury  itself  could  not  demand  more 
than  one  gas  jet.  Tommy,  not  having  an  economical 
mind,  struck  a  match,  got  on  a  chair,  and  increased  the 
quarterly  gas  bill.  Then  he  took  from  his  locker  a 
copy  of  "Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern,"  with  tunes, 
and  three  sticks  of  plain  chocolate.  He  opened  the 
piano,  drew  the  chair  up  to  it,  and  put  the  three  sticks 
of  chocolate  on  the  lowest  octave,  because  it  would  be 
handy  there,  and  that  octave  would  not  be  required  for 
the  purpose  for  which  its  bad  German  maker  had 
originally  intended  it.  Then  he  sat  down,  found  the 
tune  that  he  was  anxious  to  learn  before  Christmas 
Day  arrived,  and  set  to  work.  It  was  only  recently 
that  Tommy  had  "taken  music,"  but  he  had  already 
found  out  some  important  facts  in  connection  with  it. 
He  knew,  for  instance,  that  it  was  really  the  right 
hand  which  did  most  of  the  work;  the  right  hand  did 
the  actual  tune,  and  if  that  went  wrong  it  was  of  very 
little  use  for  the  left  hand  to  be  perfectly  correct. 
Whereas,  if  the  right  hand  knew  its  work  and  made 
enough  noise  with  it,  the  left  hand  might  come  in 
gently  where  it  would  and  as  it  could.  So  he  began 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST    103 

now  to  learn  the  right-hand  part  first.  He  put  the  soft 
pedal  down,  and  struck  the  notes  as  gently  as  possible, 
because  he  did  not  want  Mr.  Elton  in  the  masters' 
room  overhead  to  hear  the  tune ;  it  was  to  be  a  surprise 
on  Christmas  Eve — supposing  that  it  could  be  got  into 
good  going  order  by  that  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
the  precaution  was  needless;  the  tune,  in  its  embryo 
stage,  might  safely  have  been  audible  as  it  would  cer- 
tainly not  have  been  recognizable. 

At  nine  o'clock  there  was  supper,  and,  as  Mr.  Bunby 
frequently  pointed  out,  all  the  best  doctors  are  agreed 
that  this  meal,  if  taken  at  all,  should  be  as  light  as 
possible.  After  supper  Elton  read  prayers,  omitting 
two  somewhat  lengthy  petitions,  for  "a  steady  and 
conscientious  application  to  our  studies,"  and  for 
"such  pleasant  and  friendly  intercourse  with  our  com- 
rades as  may  best  tend  to  promote,"  etc.,  etc.  These 
were,  he  considered,  only  applicable  in  term-time. 
Mr.  Bunby  had  composed  these  prayers  himself,  and 
it  is  greatly  to  be  feared  that  Tommy  regarded  their 
abbreviation  as  one  more  of  the  relaxations  that  the 
holidays  had  brought  with  them. 

Then  Tommy  went  off  to  his  bedroom,  read  "Trea- 
sure Island"  for  half  an  hour  by  the  light  of  one 
surreptitious  candle,  and  finally  dropped  off  to  sleep. 
Elton,  in  the  masters'  room,  sat  before  the  fire,  pon- 
dered, and  pitied  himself. 

It  was  going  to  be  terribly  lonely  for  him.  In  con- 
sideration of  his  board  and  lodging,  and  a  fraction 
under  one  shilling  and  threepence  per  diem,  he  had 
sentenced  himself  to  absolute  solitude.  There  was 
Tommy,  of  course,  but  Tommy  did  not  count;  or 
rather,  Tommy  made  things  worse.  All  through  the 
term  there  were  many  Tommies;  the  chief  point  of  the 


104         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

holiday  was  that  they  brought  with  them  a  complete 
absence  of  boys.  That  point  was  lost,  for  he  would 
certainly  have  to  suffer  Tommy's  presence  at  meal- 
times, and  he  would  also  be  expected  to  exercise  some 
sort  of  slight  supervision  of  his  movements  during  the 
day.  That  was  what  a  man  of  intelligence  and  edu- 
cation and  taste  was  compelled  to  endure  in  order  to 
secure  for  himself  the  paltry  privilege  of  being  allowed 
to  live.  Was  it  worth  while?  Emphatically  not;  he 
would  have  preferred  to  die,  but  being  a  victim  to  the 
primary  instinct,  he  went  to  sleep  instead.  He  also 
read  in  bed,  but  his  book  was  the  English  translation 
of  Schopenhauer,  and  it  was  on  the  floor  in  ten  min- 
utes. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?"  he 
asked  Tommy  on  the  following  morning. 

"My  old  stamp-book's  come  to  bits,"  replied 
Tommy,  "and  I've  got  a  better  one  that  was  a  present. 
So  I'm  going  to  float  off  all  the  stamps  out  of  the  old 
one,  and  put  them " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see." 

"The  chaps  being  away,  I  can  get  all  the  lavatory 
basins  at  once  for  floating  the  pages  in,  and  that  keeps 
the  stamps  from  getting  mixed.  I  can  have  all  the 
basins,  can't  I?" 

"Yes.  Don't  make  any  mess,  though;  and  don't 
go  out  until  I  return." 

Then  Elton  sauntered  down  into  the  town,  smoking 
openly  the  cigarette  that  in  term-time  was  prohibited. 
He  examined  the  shops,  with  their  Christmas  cards, 
Christmas  toys,  Christmas  turkeys.  And,  as  he  did  so, 
a  very  great  idea  came  to  him.  He  would  occupy  his 
leisure  during  the  holidays  by  the  composition  of  a 
long,  satirical  poem,  to  be  called  "Christmas  Re- 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST     105 

viewed."  By  the  audacity  of  its  manner  of  dealing 
with  a  sacred  subject,  by  its  fierce  and  concentrated 
bitterness,  by  its  marvellous  melancholy,  and  by  its 
exquisite  finish,  it  should  attract  attention  and  ap- 
preciation. Such  things  would  be  worthless  to  a  man 
without  illusions,  but  he  was  prepared  to  work  hard  to 
secure  them.  He  went  into  the  best  stationer's  shop 
at  once. 

"Have  you,"  he  inquired,  "any  hand-made  writing- 
paper,  with  the  rough  edge,  you  know?  Letter  size? 
It  might  be  scribbling  or  letter — but  not  folded  as 
letter." 

The  stationer  reflected,  touched  his  forehead,  beamed 
with  sudden  recollection,  and  was  off  up  a  ladder  like 
an  adventurous  monkey  in  a  black  coat.  Down  he 
came  with  his  dusty  prize,  blowing  it,  smacking  it, 
active  and  business-like.  A  touch  and  a  jerk,  and  the 
knot  that  only  business  could  tie  was  loosened  as 
only  business  could  loosen  it.  The  soiled  covers  fell 
apart;  there,  in  creamy  whiteness,  with  rough  edge, 
was  "an  article  that  I've  had  no  inquiry  for,  sir,  for 
years." 

After  this,  as  the  days  went  on  towards  Christmas, 
Elton  saw  less  and  less  of  Tommy  Maynham.  The 
boy  was  well-behaved,  apparently,  and  did  not  require 
supervision.  Absorbed  in  his  composition,  Elton 
hardly  noticed  him ;  sometimes  at  meals  the  boy  would 
speak  to  Elton,  and  Elton's  answer  would  come  after 
a  lapse  of  minutes,  or  not  at  all.  It  was  not,  as  Tommy 
supposed,  that  the  master  wished  to  snub  the  boy,  but 
only  that  Elton  had  in  the  carrying  out  of  his  very 
good  idea  become  somewhat  absent-minded.  If  he 
had  noticed  the  boy  at  all,  he  would  have  noticed  that 
his  cheerfulness  and  activity  were  fast  vanishing.  The 


106         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

stamps  were  all  correctly  arranged  in  the  stamp-book 
now,  "Treasure  Island"  was  finished,  and  Tommy's 
order  for  another  of  the  same  brand  was  still  the  sub- 
ject of  apologies  from  the  bookseller. 

"Here,  have  you  got  my  book  yet  ?"  asked  Tommy ; 
"and  if  you  haven't,  why  the  dickens  haven't  you?" 

The  bookseller  referred  to  "the  delays  in  trans- 
mission inevitable  during  the  pressure  of  business 
prevalent  at  this  season  of  the  year." 

Tommy  remarked  "Skittles!"  and  walked  out  of 
the  shop. 

He  would  not  so  much  have  minded  having  next  to 
nothing  to  do  if  he  had  only  had  somebody  with  whom 
to  do  it.  Not  being  analytical,  he  grew  dull  and  de- 
jected without  being  conscious  of  the  reason  for  it. 
The  day  before  Christmas  Day  cheered  him  up  a  little. 
A  hamper  arrived  for  him,  containing  much  that  was 
edible,  and  a  Jules  Verne  that  was  readable.  There 
were  letters  from  India,  with  Christmas  cards  and 
postal  orders  in  them.  There  were  letters  from  his 
cousins;  there  were  sundry  small  packages  containing 
presents.  He  himself  was  busy  with  the  sending  of 
letters  and  cards,  and  with  a  final  rehearsal  of  that  tune 
he  had  been  so  anxious  to  learn.  The  treble  of  it  had 
by  this  time  been  brought  to  a  satisfactory  condition, 
and  a  great  deal  of  the  bass  was  only  a  very  little 
wrong.  On  the  whole,  the  prospects  of  making  it  a 
proper  Christmas  seemed  to  him  much  better  than  they 
had  done  the  day  before. 

That  night,  when  Tommy  went  up  to  his  bedroom, 
he  did  not  go  to  sleep;  on  the  contrary,  he  adopted 
precautions  to  keep  himself  awake.  He  drank  cold 
coffee  of  exceptional  strength  made  to  his  order  by  a 
local  confectioner,  and  brought  up  from  the  shop  in  a 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST    107 

medicine  bottle.  This,  in  conjunction  with  the  excite- 
ment of  the  Jules  Verne,  kept  him  from  sleep  until 
eleven  o'clock.  It  was  at  that  hour,  he  remembered, 
that  the  waits  generally  began  at  home.  He  went 
downstairs  to  the  day-room,  lit  (as  though  there  were 
no  such  things  as  gas  bills)  both  the  gas  jets,  opened 
the  piano,  arranged  the  music,  clapped  down  the  loud 
pedal,  and  commenced.  He  played  hard  and  he  sang 
hard.  Tommy's  rendering  of  "Hark!  the  Herald 
Angels  Sing"  could  be  heard  distinctly — as  he  intended 
it  to  be  heard — all  over  the  building. 

"Now  this,"  Tommy  thought  to  himself,  "will  be  a 
surprise  for  Mr.  Elton." 

It  was.  Upstairs  in  his  own  room  Mr.  Elton  could 
hardly  believe  his  ears.  Here  was,  apparently,  an  open 
defiance  of  rules  and  discipline.  He  put  down  the 
manuscript  of  "Christmas  Reviewed,"  now  approach- 
ing its  maturity,  and  dashed  downstairs  to  the  day- 
room. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  asked  angrily. 

Tommy  smiled,  turned  round  on  the  music  stool,  and 
explained. 

"I  was  going  to  have  asked  permission,"  he  said, 
"only  I  couldn't,  because  it  was  meant  to  be  a  surprise 
for  you,  sir,  and  I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind." 

"Not  mind  a  row  like  this  past  eleven  o'clock  at 
night !  What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Well,  sir,  the  boy  that  does  the  boots  told  me  that 
the  regular  waits  never  came  up  here,  because  Mr. 
Bunby  never  gives  anybody  anything." 

"You've  no  business  to  be  chattering  to  the  boot- 
boy  at  all." 

Tommy's  real  excuse — that  during  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  there  was  absolutely  no  one  else  to  whom 


io8         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

he  could  talk  at  all — seemed  to  him  too  silly  to  put 
forward. 

"I  don't  often  do  it,"  he  pleaded.  "We  always 
have  the  waits  at  Christmas,  and  that  gave  me  the  idea. 
I  didn't  mean  to  do  any  harm." 

"Very  likely,  but  you  must  please  remember  that 
rules  are  rules.  You've  given  me  no  trouble  so  far, 
and  I  believe  that  you  didn't  intend  to  give  any  now. 
For  that  reason  I  shan't  punish  you.  Now  shut  the 
piano,  and  run  back  to  your  bedroom.  And  another 
time  try  to  think  before  you  do  anything." 

Tommy  thanked  him,  said  good  night,  and  went  off 
to  his  room.  It  was  all  a  failure,  and  he  wished  that  he 
had  never  thought  of  it.  Christmas  was  not  beginning 
very  well. 

When  Elton  came  down  to  breakfast  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  he  found  a  white  envelope  on  his  plate. 
Tommy,  looking  rather  self-conscious,  watched  that 
envelope  out  of  a  corner  of  his  eye  as  Elton  opened 
it.  It  contained  a  Christmas  card.  On  one  side  was 
a  picture  of  a  small  church  and  a  hard  frost;  on  the 
other  was  written,  in  a  boyish  hand,  "With  love  and 
best  wishes  from  T.  Maynham."  Elton  glanced  at  it 
and  put  it  down.  He  never  sent  cards  himself,  and  did 
not  like  receiving  them. 

"Very  pretty,"  he  said.  "Thank  you,  Maynham. 
The  compliments  of  the  season  to  you."  Then  he  re- 
lapsed into  silence  and  Schopenhauer.  When  he  got 
up  from  breakfast  he  forgot  to  take  the  card.  Tommy 
brought  it  to  him  just  as  he  was  leaving  the  dining-hall. 
"Ah,  thanks!"  said  Elton.  "I'm  always  forgetting 
my  letters,  you  know."  But  this  did  not  reassure 
Tommy;  he  knew  that  the  card  was,  like  the  hymn- 
tune,  a  failure.  Elton  sauntered  upstairs  to  his  own 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST    109 

room,  and  dropped  the  card  into  the  waste-paper  bas- 
ket. Tommy  went  to  church  alone  that  morning. 
Elton  explained  that  he  had  an  incipient  cold,  and 
thought  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  keep  to  the  house 
that  morning.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  wished  to  finish 
copying  out  that  bitter  satire,  "Christmas  Reviewed." 
It  would  be  an  additional  point  if  it  were  finished  on 
Christmas  Day.  As  he  began  work,  an  uneasy  idea 
flashed  across  him  that  he  might  just  as  well  look  after 
Tommy  a  little  bit  more,  and  make  things  pleasanter 
for  him.  Tommy  apparently  took  Christmas  very 
seriously,  and  would  like  a  little  more  sociability.  He 
made  up  his  mind  to  encourage  Tommy  to  talk  at 
dinner,  and,  perhaps,  spend  a  few  minutes  in  the  day- 
room  with  him  afterwards.  Elton  was  not  an  unkind 
man,  only  rather  vain,  rather  selfish,  and  frequently 
forgetful.  By  the  time  that  the  dinner-bell  rang,  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  Tommy,  and  had  worked  up 
his  dejection  and  detestation  of  life  (by  close  applica- 
tion to  "Christmas  Reviewed")  to  such  a  pitch  that  he 
neither  wanted  to  talk  to  anybody  nor  see  anybody. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  that  dinner  must  place  Tommy 
in  no  heroic  light.  Christmas  dinner  was,  in  all  of 
Tommy's  previous  experience,  a  banquet.  Tradition 
demanded  that  there  should  be  turkey  in  it;  the  boot- 
boy  had  told  Tommy  (though  a  superficial  knowledge 
of  Mr.  Bunby  should  have  taught  him  better),  that 
he  was  pretty  certain  it  would  be  turkey ;  Tommy  had 
expected  turkey.  He  had  pictured  it  carved  liberally 
by  a  smiling  master  (now  at  last  awake  to  the  joviality 
of  the  season),  and  handed  to  a  rejoicing  boy.  He 
had  decided  to  ask  Mr.  Elton  that  excellent  riddle 
about  Turkey  and  China,  which  Tommy's  uncle  never 
failed  to  propound  on  due  occasion.  Why,  the  mere 


no        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

eating  of  the  turkey  would  be  a  mystic  bond  of  union 
between  himself  in  exile  and  his  people  at  home.  Five 
minutes  before  dinner  his  imagination  plainly  detected 
the  very  smell  of  turkey. 

And  it  was  a  leg  of  mutton!  Elton  carved  it,  with- 
out seeming  at  all  conscious  that  it  was  wrong,  or  even 
conscious  that  Tommy  was  present.  It  is  an  authenti- 
cated fact  that  thousands  of  starving  families  would 
have  welcomed  that  leg  of  mutton,  and  that  some 
religious  orders  habitually  take  their  meals  in  silence. 
Tommy,  being  neither  a  starving  family  nor  a  religious 
order,  but  merely  a  wretched  boy,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  refused  a  second  help.  And  then  came  a  rice- 
pudding  and  more  silence.  It  is  an  authenticated  fact 
that  some  whole  nations  live  almost  entirely  on  rice. 
It  is  singularly  nutritious. 

Then  Tommy  rose  and  said  with  fair  steadiness : 
"May  I  go,  sir?  I'm  not  well." 

"Certainly,"  said  Elton.  Of  course,  Tommy's  peo- 
ple had  sent  him  a  hamper,  and  the  boy  had  eaten  too 
much.  Pig !  Well,  it  was  all  a  suggestion  for  "Christ- 
mas Reviewed." 

Elton  finished  his  dinner  leisurely  and  then  supposed 
that  he  would  have  to  go  and  look  after  the  dis- 
gusting little  beast.  He  found  him  in  the  day-room. 
The  disgusting  little  beast  was  sitting  with  a  book  in 
front  of  him  at  the  further  end  of  the  table.  His  head 
rested  on  his  hands,  and  when  Elton  entered  he  turned 
away  as  much  as  possible. 

"Well,  Maynham,  what's  the  matter?" 

"I'm  all  right  now,  sir,"  said  Tommy. 

It  did  not  sound  like  the  boy's  natural  voice.  Elton 
came  further  into  the  room,  and  then  saw  that  Tommy 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST     in 

was  crying.  He  went  up  to  him  and  took  him  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Why,  Maynham,"  he  said,  "this  doesn't  look  as  if 
everything  was  all  right." 

"I  wish  it  wasn't  Christmas,"  said  Tommy,  and 
continued  crying.  "But  I'm  all  right,"  he  added. 

Slowly  and  incoherently,  in  reply  to  Elton's  ques- 
tions, he  told  what  was  the  matter.  He  spoke  of  what 
he  had  been  used  to  do  at  Christmas.  It  was  loneliness 
that  was  the  matter — loneliness,  and  neglect,  and  un- 
friendliness, amounting  to  contempt  and  even  cruelty. 
Tommy  did  not  accuse  Elton  of  any  of  these  things; 
he  did  not  seem  to  think  Elton  had  behaved  badly  to 
him;  yet  Elton  was  sufficiently  intelligent  to  make 
deductions.  To  feel  that  he  was  an  unhappy  man 
had  brought  him  a  kind  of  melancholy  pleasure;  to 
feel  that  he  had  been  a  brute  brought  him  no  pleasure 
at  all.  And,  though  Tommy's  only  specific  accusation 
was  against  the  leg  of  mutton,  it  was  Elton  who  stood 
condemned — felt  it — knew  it. 

"Well,"  said  Elton,  "I'm  glad  you're  not  really  ill, 
because  I  wanted  you  this  afternoon." 

"Wanted  me?" 

"Yes,  I've  had  a  lot  of  work  on  hand  these  last  few 
days.  But  I  shan't  woik  on  Christmas  Day,  and, 
besides,  I'm  sick  of  being  alone  always.  If  you're  not 
too  keen  on  your  book,  what  I  should  really  like  would 
be  a  game  of  draughts.  Only,  I  haven't  got  a  board." 

"I  have,"  said  Tommy.     "Shall  I  get  it?" 

"Do." 

"It's  in  my  room.    I'll  be  down  with  it  in  a  minute." 

"Oh,  we  won't  play  here,"  said  Elton.  "This  room 
isn't  very  comfortable.  Come  to  my  sitting-room." 

The  masters'  sitting-room  was  not  luxurious,  but  it 


112         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

was  a  paradise  compared  to  the  day-room.  It  was  a 
paradise  which  no  boy  at  Redhurst  had  ever  yet  been 
allowed  to  enter.  Here  was  an  invitation  that  was 
honor,  indeed.  Tommy  was  effusive  in  his  thanks. 

It  took  Tommy  two  minutes  to  find  that  draught- 
board. During  these  two  minutes  Elton  had  time  to 
get  to  his  room,  fish  Tommy's  card  out  of  the  waste- 
paper  basket,  discover  that  it  would  just  fit  the  frame 
that  now  held  a  photograph  of  Gibbing's  sister,  re- 
move the  photograph  and  substitute  the  card  and  place 
it  in  the  center  of  the  mantelpiece.  Tommy's  eyes 
lighted  on  it  as  he  came  into  the  room. 

"Why,  that's  the  one "  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  we've  given  you  the  place  of  honor.  Won- 
derful, that  frost  effect  is !" 

"And  it's  just  done  with  glue  and  powdered  glass," 
said  Tommy.  "I  could  do  it  myself." 

"But  you  can't  beat  me  at  draughts.  Come  along 
with  you  now." 

Elton  intended  to  let  Tommy  win  the  first  game. 
Tommy  saved  him  the  trouble  by  taking  it.  Then 
Elton  decided  to  win  the  second  game  himself,  played 
carefully  and  lost  it.  Elton  had  not  played  since  he 
was  a  child.  He  had  scored  one  game  to  Tommy's  five, 
and  they  were  in  the  middle  of  the  seventh  when  the 
tea-bell  rang. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  have  tea  up  here?"  suggested 
Elton.  "Run  downstairs  and  fetch  the  things  up,  and 
we'll  make  a  picnic." 

This  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  Tommy  liked;  any 
boy  prefers  an  irregular  to  a  regular  meal.  Tommy, 
rather  shyly  and  apologetically,  added  a  cake,  "Which 
they  sent  me,  and  it  isn't  half  bad  really,  sir,  if  you'd 
try  it."  Elton  tried  it,  and  was  enthusiastic. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  PESSIMIST    113 

"Are  we  going  to  have  any  waits  to-night?"  asked 
Elton,  smiling,  just  before  supper.  "Come,  Tommy, 
let's  have  the  performance  now,  at  a  reasonable  time." 

So  the  tune  came  in  seasonably  after  all,  and  if  the 
left  hand  did  omit  the  more  difficult  chords  and  play 
the  easier  ones  wrong,  neither  Tommy  nor  Mr.  Elton 
seemed  to  consider  that  this  at  all  detracted  from  the 
general  effect.  Tommy  went  to  bed  radiantly  happy. 
It  had  not  taken  much  to  make  him  happy. 

When  Tommy  had  gone  to  bed,  Elton  so  far  dis- 
regarded Mr.  Bunby's  direction  as  to  ring  the  bell  and 
ask  for  the  cook.  She  came,  astonished,  somewhat 
flustered. 

"Cook,"  said  Elton,  "we  must  have  a  turkey  for 
dinner  to-morrow." 

Cook  was  sure  that  they  ought  to  have  it,  too,  only 
Mr.  Bunby  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and  if  he  saw  turkey 
in  the  dinner-book — well,  there!  Let  alone  Orley,  the 
poulterer,  being  shut  on  Bank  Holiday.  She  was  sorry, 
too,  she  was.  But  Mr.  Elton  knew  what  Mr.  Bunby 
was — oh ;  most  careful !  and — well,  there ! 

"Look  here,  cook,"  said  Elton,  "this  is  a  sovereign. 
Mr.  Bunby  need  not  pay  for  the  turkey,  and  Orley  will 
not  risk  losing  your  custom  for  twenty  Bank  Holidays. 
Get  the  turkey,  keep  the  change  for  a  Christmas  box, 
and  the  compliments  of  the  season  to  you."  Next  day 
the  turkey  arrived  all  right.  In  the  dinner-book  the 
cook  made  the  entry  "Muton  chopes,"  and  hoped  that 
it  was  no  acting  of  a  lie — which,  however,  it  was. 

Elton  found  that  he  had  enjoyed  the  latter  part  of 
that  day  more  than  he  had  enjoyed  anything  for  some 
time.  His  nature  had  not  changed,  but  his  point  of 
view  had.  He  saw  himself  less  as  a  master  and  more 
as  a  man.  And  during  the  rest  of  the  holidays  he  did 


114        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

his  best  to  wipe  out  from  his  memory  (and  Tommy's) 
his  recollection  of  himself  as  a  brute. 

One  night  at  the  end  of  the  holidays  he  came  across 
a  poem  on  hand-made  paper,  entitled  "Christmas  Re- 
viewed." Some  of  it  was  very  clever  and  very  bitter. 
Elton  was  ashamed  of  it  and  burnt  it. 

But  he  still  keeps  one  document  of  which  he  is  even 
more  ashamed — a  letter  from  Tommy's  mother  in  In- 
dia, wishing  to  thank  him  personally  and  most  warmly 
for  his  great  goodness  and  kindness  to  her  dear  little 
son  during  the  Christmas  holidays. 


X 

CHRISIMISSIMA 

CHRISTINA  ARGENT  was,  officially  and  other- 
wise, the  leader  of  the  school  at  Helmstone. 
Her  age  and  position  in  the  school  gave  her  the  official 
leadership  and  made  her  monitor.  But  official  leaders 
often  have  but  little  influence  and  dominance:  Chris- 
tina had  much.  If  she  had  been  younger  and  lower  on 
the  list,  it  is  probable  she  would  still  have  led. 

There  must  be  a  reason  for  this,  and  Olive  Pastowe 
would  have  said  that  the  reason  was  that  Christina 
was  by  far  the  nicest  girl  in  the  school  and  also  the 
prettiest.  But  as  Olive  and  Christina  were  great 
friends,  Olive's  evidence  is  open  to  objection  on  the 
score  of  bias.  In  some  respects  the  girls  were  alike; 
they  were  both  fifteen,  both  dark-haired.  If  Christina, 
who  could  look  very  proud,  was  really  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  school,  certainly  Olive  came  second.  They 
had  the  same  tastes;  their  handwriting  was  ludicrous 
in  its  similarity.  But  Christina  had  authority  and 
Olive  had  none.  Minna  Nathan  would  have  explained 
this  on  the  ground  that  Christina  was  the  wealthiest 
girl  in  the  school  and  the  daughter  of  titled  parents. 
But  Minna,  to  be  frank,  was  a  mean-souled  snob ;  and 
one  regrets  to  add  that  Minna's  papa  was  another. 
Ellen  Holmes  would  have  pointed  out  that  Christina 
was  the  best  hockey-player  and  could  throw  a  cricket- 

"5 


ii6        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

ball  just  like  a  boy.  This  is  true  as  far  as  it  goes.  But 
Christina  was  no  Admirable  Crichton  in  work  or  in 
sport.  Her  arithmetic  was  marked  "Deplorable"  in 
her  report.  Her  friend  Olive  could  give  her  half  fif- 
teen at  tennis,  nor  could  she  swim  twice  the  length  of 
the  bath  under  water,  a  feat  which  Ellen  Holmes  her- 
self could  accomplish.  We  must  perforce  consider 
that  Ellen  was  wanting  in  psychological  analysis. 

It  is  more  satisfactory — and  also  quite  easy — to  say 
that  Christina  Argent  was  a  leader  because  she  pos- 
sessed the  gift  of  leadership.  It  is  a  mysterious  gift. 
It  is  a  gift  which  has  been  possessed  by  people  who  in 
other  respects  bore  little  resemblance  to  each  other — 
by  Chatham,  for  example,  and  by  General  Booth;  by 
Gladstone  and  by  Beaconsfield.  In  such  men  lies  the 
note  of  dominant  personality,  and  the  greatest  amount 
of  the  highest  attainments  can  never  make  up  for  the 
want  of  it  or  take  the  place  of  it.  Look,  for  example,, 

at  such  illustrious  failures  as But  you  may  fill 

in  the  names  for  yourself;  you  will  have  no  difficulty. 

The  natural  consequence  of  Christina's  pre-eminence 
was  that  Olive's  principal  claim  to  consideration  was 
that  she  was  the  one  intimate  friend  of  Christina. 
She  had  her  own  merits.  If  you  had  asked  specially 
about  her  tennis,  you  would  have  been  told  that  she 
was  simply  splendid,  and  had  won  a  tournament  in 
which  several  adults  were  engaged.  In  work  she  had 
shown  an  aptitude  that  was  almost  uncanny  for  Eng- 
lish history.  But  if  you  had  merely  said:  "Who's 
Olive?"  the  answer  would  have  been — "Olive?  Why, 
she's  Christina's  greatest  friend."  The  principal 
claim  to  distinction  would  have  been  first  stated. 
Mabel  Leroy  would  have  said  that  Olive  was  Chris- 
tina's best  pal,  but  Mabel  was  always  a  little  slangy. 


CHRISIMISSIMA  117 

It  was  commonly  pleaded  in  her  defense  that  she  had 
many  brothers. 

It  would  appear  from  the  pages  of  history  that  the 
favorites  of  the  great  all  fall  from  their  high  estate. 
The  kindly  historian  assigns  the  fall  to  the  capricious- 
ness  and  fickleness  of  the  monarch,  but  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  favorite  has  frequently  brought 
it  on  himself.  Because  he  has  held  his  position  for  a 
long  time  he  regards  it  as  an  assured  position ;  he  has 
presumed.  When  we  come  to  consider  the  celebrated 
break  between  Olive  and  Christina,  which  created  so 
much  talk  in  the  Helmstone  school,  we  find  that  the 
first  step  came  from  Olive  herself.  As  she  admitted 
afterwards,  she  began  it.  She  may  have  been  right  in 
what  she  did,  or  she  may  have  been  wrong;  the  bare 
facts  shall  be  recorded. 

The  school  possessed  its  own  playing-fields,  and  the 
pupils  spent  most  of  their  leisure  there;  but  at  certain 
times  they  were  required  to  take  a  formal  and  proces- 
sional walk  through  the  streets  of  Helmstone — a  thing 
abhorrent.  It  is  true  that  the  walk  gave  them  a  passing 
glimpse  into  fascinating  shop-windows,  and  enabled 
them  to  make  notes  of  the  prevalent  feminine  fashions; 
but  these  delights  were  miserably  tempered.  It  was 
only  a  passing  glimpse,  and  while  you  looked  at  one 
side  of  the  street  you  missed  things  on  the  other. 
That  delicious  and  prolonged  flattening  of  the  nose 
against  the  plate-glass,  while  you  are  wondering  which 
you  would  buy  if  you  could  afford  it,  was  not  the 
thing  that  Miss  Ferdinand  or  any  of  her  agents  would 
have  permitted.  If  a  horse  had  fallen  or  a  motor-car 
broken  down,  the  school  might  not  stand  around  with 
wondering  eyes  and  dropped  jaws,  and  ask  the  police- 
man how  it  happened;  the  procession  could  give  but 


u8        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

one  longing  look  and  continue  to  proceed.  Then,  too, 
there  was  the  consciousness  that  this  procession  of 
girls,  each  with  the  school  colors  on  a  severe  straw 
hat,  was  greeted  with  humorous  and  impolite  comment 
by  the  vulgar.  Men  said  things  and  you  could  see  the 
smile.  For  this  reason  Christina  at  the  head  of  the 
profession  always  wore  an  expression  of  remote,  re- 
frigerated haughtiness;  and  even  her  friend  Olive  by 
her  side  did  her  best  to  appear  less  interested  in  things 
in  general  than  she  really  was. 

Subject  to  the  approval  of  the  authorities,  the  girls 
settled  among  themselves  how  they  would  be  paired 
for  the  walk.  Thus  Elsa  would  say  to  Marjorie : 
"May  I  walk  with  you  to-day?"  And  Marjorie  would 
reply:  "Yes,  do  let's,"  or  "I've  promised  Dora,"  ac- 
cording to  her  inclinations  or  arrangements.  But 
Christina  and  Olive  always  walked  together  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  and  had  done  so  for  a  very  long  time — 
more  than  a  fortnight,  as  Christina  afterwards  calcu- 
lated. This  makes  the  case  look  rather  black  against 
Olive;  yet  it  is  possible  that  in  what  she  did  she  was 
actuated  by  kindness — degenerating  into  weakness,  if 
you  like,  but  still  kindness.  Hear  and  judge  for  your- 
self. 

Olive  came  up  to  Christina  in  the  cloak-room  five 
minutes  before  the  walk  started,  and  said:  "Chrisi- 
missima" — this  was  her  fond  abbreviation  of  her 
leader's  name — "I  hope  you  don't  mind,  but  I'm  walk- 
ing with  Nellie  Holmes  to-day.  She's  asked  me  so 
often  that  I  was  simply  ashamed  to  keep  on  saying  that 
I  was  engaged." 

Christina  treated  the  matter  with  a  suspicious  light- 
ness. "Of  course  you're  not  engaged,"  she  said. 
"Hope  you'll  have  a  nice  time.  I'd  promised  to  walk 


CHRISIMISSIMA  119 

with  Gwen,  anyhow."  This  last  statement  was  quite 
untrue,  and  it  is  unfortunately  not  the  only  untruth 
with  which  we  shall  have  to  discredit  Christina.  She 
went  off  at  once  to  make  the  arrangement  with  Gwen 
— a  pusillanimous  wretch  who  broke  a  distinct  promise 
to  Mabel  Leroy  in  order  that  she  might  accept  the 
flattering  boon  of  Christina's  society. 

Olive  did  not  enjoy  the  walk  in  the  least.  She  was 
troubled  and  depressed.  She  asked  herself  if  she  had 
done  right.  She  loved  Christina,  but  she  did  not  want 
to  hurt  anybody's  feelings — not  even  those  of  Nellie 
Holmes.  Still,  if  Christina  was  going  to  be  offended, 
was  Nellie  Holmes  worth  it? 

Nellie,  as  has  already  been  pointed  out,  could  swim 
twice  the  length  of  the  bath  under  water.  But  she 
stopped  there. 

Yes,  the  above  paragraph  is  unfortunately  expressed. 
What  is  really  meant,  is  that  Ellen  Holmes  had  no 
accomplishments  other  than  natatory.  Also,  she  was 
as  plain  as  a  motor-omnibus. 

Christina  was  very  angry.  That  "I  hope  you  don't 
mind"  of  Olive's  was  tactless  and  rankled.  Why  on 
earth  should  she  mind  ?  Any  girl  in  the  school  would 
be  only  too  glad  and  proud  to  be  her  companion  on  the 
walk.  All  the  same,  she  did  hate  people  who  did  not 
know  their  own  minds,  or  pretended  to  be  very  fond  of 
you  when  they  really  did  not  care.  And  if  that  was 
the  way  Olive  was  going  on,  she  would  soon  show 
her Elliptical  but  threatening. 

She  spoke  of  Olive  to  Gwen  quite  dispassionately, 
with  scrupulous  fairness,  not  shutting  her  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  Olive  had  her  slightly  ridiculous  side.  The 
slave  Gwendolen  endeavored  to  echo  the  note,  and 
got  badly  snubbed  for  her  pains.  Gwendolen  had  not 


120        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

realized  that  in  her  place  by  Christina's  side  she  was 
merely  a  caretaker,  and  that  caretakers  should  not 
behave  like  owners. 

Christina  and  Olive  met  after  the  walk.  "I'd  much 
sooner  have  been  with  you,"  said  Olive  at  once. 

Christina  wore  that  air  of  not  having  heard,  which 
is  not  uncommon  with  those  who  have  the  gift  of 
leadership.  Olive  had  to  repeat  her  remark,  with  some 
of  the  enthusiasm  chilled  out  of  her. 

"Really!"  said  Christina,  giving  her  attention  to 
the  arrangement  of  her  hair.  "I  should  have  thought 
Minnie  Nathan  would  just  have  suited  you." 

"It  wasn't  Minnie  Nathan,"  said  Olive  indignantly, 
"and  you  know  it  wasn't.  I  simply  can't  stand  her.  It 
was  only  poor  little  Nellie,  because  nobody  seems— 

Christina  swept  away  from  the  looking-glass  with 
a  fair-to-middling  assumption  of  boredom.  "Oh, 
well,"  she  said,  "you  can't  expect  me  to  know  who  all 
your  friends  are;  besides,  it  doesn't  interest  me." 

The  rapidity  with  which  news  of  importance  is 
obtained  and  circulated  in  girls'  schools  is  a  problem 
that  still  baffles  the  inquirer.  That  very  afternoon  it 
was  whispered  in  the  classroom  that  the  old,  almost 
monumental,  friendship  between  Christina  and  Olive 
was  quite  broken  up.  The  report  was  brought  for 
confirmation  to  Christina  herself  by  Minna  Nathan, 
who  was  generally  active  in  any  pretty  work  of  the 
kind.  "You  can't  break  up  what  wasn't,"  said  Chris- 
tina with  cold  disdain. 

Later  in  the  day  it  was  announced,  officially,  that 
Miss  Ferdinand  would  give  a  special  prize  for  history 
at  the  end  of  the  term;  and,  unofficially,  that  Olive 
Pastowe  meant  to  go  in  for  it.  "Funny,"  said  Chris- 
tina, when  she  heard.  "I'm  going  in  for  it  myself. 


CHRISIMISSIMA  121 

However,"  she  added,  with  a  humility  which  would 
have  been  more  touching  if  it  had  been  convincing, 
"she's  bound  to  beat  me." 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  as  a  rule,  the  disposition 
of  extra  prizes  in  this  school  was  a  matter  of  arrange- 
ment among  the  girls  themselves.  Naturally,  the  com- 
plete duffer  was  not  allowed  to  annex  them;  that 
would  have  been  unjust  and  would  have  awakened 
the  suspicions  of  the  authorities.  But  when  four  girls 
all  had  a  chance  of  the  same  prize,  they  settled  among 
themselves  which  of  the  four  was  to  get  it.  The 
selection  depended  on  various  considerations.  The  girl 
who  got  the  prize  last  time  would,  of  course,  be  ruled 
out.  The  girl  who  was  certain  of  other  prizes  would 
also  be  told  not  to  be  greedy.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
girl  who  was  in  for  a  bad-conduct  report  would  have 
some  claim  on  that  prize  as  a  counter-weight.  The 
girl  who  first  demanded  it — "Bags  I  the  history  prize" 
would  be  the  correct  formula — and  had  been  promised 
a  sovereign  by  papa  if  she  brought  a  prize  home, 
would  have  a  very  strong  case,  more  especially  if  she 
agreed  to  divide  a  moiety  of  that  sovereign  among  the 
other  competitors. 

The  system  had  its  advantages.  It  prevented 
rivalry  and  bitterness  of  feeling.  Under  a  strictly 
competitive  system  four  girls  would  have  worked 
cruelly  hard,  and  three  would  have  been  disappointed ; 
by  this  method  one  girl  worked  moderately,  three  were 
as  slack  as  they  pleased,  and  there  were  no  disappoint- 
ments at  all.  The  captious  moralist  may  say  that  it 
suggests  that  the  auction  knock-out  is  a  feminine  in- 
vention, but  we  have  no  concern  with  him. 

It  will  be  seen,  then,  that  Christina  had  disregarded 
the  etiquette  of  the  school.  Olive,  by  using  the  "Bags 


122         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

I"  formula,  had  put  in  a  claim  for  the  history  prize. 
That  claim  would  have  been  subjected  to  discussion, 
and  might,  or  might  not,  have  been  established.  But 
it  was  contrary  to  all  settled  principles  for  another  girl 
to  introduce  a  crude  rivalry  into  the  business,  and, 
without  any  discussion  of  Olive's  claim,  to  oppose  it 
by  sheer  work.  It  meant  bad  feeling.  It  meant  a 
lowering  of  the  standard  to  that  of  mere  competition. 
It  meant  that  the  girl  who  knew  the  most  history  would 
get  the  history  prize.  It  was  subversive.  It  was  all 
wrong. 

Yet  there  was  no  general  condemnation  of  Chris- 
tina's .action ;  such  was  the  strength  of  her  position.  It 
was  regarded  with  sorrow  rather  than  with  anger. 
With  gentle  resignation  all  other  possible  competitors 
for  that  extra  prize  withdrew.  In  this  life-or-death 
struggle  between  Olive  and  Christina  there  was  no 
place  for  the  ordinary  weakling.  Six  to  four  in  small 
square  caramels  was  offered  on  Christina  and  taken. 

It  was  terrific.  The  ease  and  exactitude  with  which 
both  Christina  and  Olive  answered  all  questions  in 
each  day's  history  lesson  astounded,  even  while  it 
pleased,  Miss  Ferdinand.  Guilelessly  she  held  up  these 
two  girls  as  examples  to  the  class.  Little  did  she  know 
that  Olive  had  borrowed  money  (which  was  against 
the  rules)  to  buy  candles  (which  were  not  allowed) 
for  the  purpose  of  nocturnal  work  in  her  bedroom — 
a  thing  absolutely  illegal.  Little  did  she  know  the  still 
more  horrid  fact  that  the  pages  of  Christina's  Prayer 
Book  were  literally  pencilled  with  mundane  and  un- 
godly dates,  and  that  Christina  committed  them  to 
memory  when  she  should  indubitably  have  been  think- 
ing of  other  things. 

"I  wouldn't  work  like  those  two  for  a  good  deal," 


CHRISIMISSIMA  123 

said  Flossie  Bayle,  and  she  spoke  the  truth  and  voiced 
the  general  sentiment.  Any  reasonable  girl  would 
have  been  reluctant  to  work  like  that,  but  people  do 
silly  things  when  their  blood  is  up. 

The  break  between  the  two  friends  increased  and 
became  more  definite  with  their  rivalry.  They  spoke 
to  one  another  as  little  as  possible  now,  and  always 
with  icy  civility.  Olive  looked  sometimes  at  Christina 
with  wistful  eyes,  but  Christina  was  careful  never  to 
look  at  Olive  at  all,  and  when  Christina  changed  her 
place  in  the  dining-hall  so  as  not  to  sit  next  to  Olive, 
Olive  bit  her  lip  and  took  the  only  course  possible  to  a 
girl  of  spirit;  she  complained  of  a  draught,  and  thus 
got  herself  removed  from  the  seat  beside  Christina  in 
the  classroom. 

On  the  day  before  the  examination  Christina  had 
gone  back  to  even  betting.  Minna  Nathan,  who  had 
accepted  six  to  four  from  the  friends  of  Christina,  now 
backed  Christina  herself  for  five  caramels,  and  openly 
proclaimed  that  she  was  on  velvet  either  way.  It  is 
needless  to  add  that  Minna  took  the  arithmetic  prize. 

Breakfast-time  came  on  the  great  day  of  the  history 
examination,  and  no  books  might  be  read  at  breakfast. 
Christina,  however,  circumvented  the  regulation.  She 
received  a  letter  from  home  addressed  in  the  hand- 
writing of  her  eldest  sister.  The  letter  itself  dealt  with 
the  Rockingham  Administration,  the  career  of  Wilkes, 
the  character  of  Thurlow,  and  other  pleasant  trifles  of 
the  period.  In  this  way  Christina  was  enabled  to  gorge 
knowledge  up  to  the  very  last  moment. 

Olive  also  had  a  letter  from  home,  but  her  letter  was 
quite  genuine,  and  Olive  turned  as  white  as  the  cloth 
when  she  read  it. 

The  examination  began  at  nine;  when  a  girl  had 


124        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

finished  her  paper  she  handed  it  up  to  Miss  Packman 
and  was  then  free  to  go  and  play.  Mabel  Leroy  looked 
through  the  questions,  said  "By  gum!"  under  her 
breath,  wrote  two  lines  of  fantastic  imbecility  about 
the  surrender  of  Lord  Cornwallis,  and  showed  up  her 
paper  at  9.7  precisely.  But  this  was  not  tolerated. 
She  was  commanded  to  think  and  to  try  again.  At 
9.30  she  was  allowed  to  go.  Nellie  Holmes  had  writ- 
ten all  she  knew,  and  some  things  that  she  did  not 
know,  a  few  minutes  later.  It  was  a  stiff  paper,  and 
few  there  were  that  could  wrestle  long  with  it.  When 
Minna  Nathan  showed  up  her  paper  at  11.15,  after 
surreptitiously  tossing  a  coin  to  settle  the  date  of 
Chatham's  death,  she  left  only  Christina  and  Olive  still 
writing.  The  paper  suited  Christina  perfectly.  It 
would  have  suited  Olive  equally  well,  but  Olive  had 
received  bad  news  that  morning,  and  could  not  keep 
her  mind  on  her  work.  Seated  with  her  face  to  the 
wall,  she  had  wept  quietly  and  unobserved.  But  she 
was  still  struggling  on  when  twelve  struck;  and  the 
two  girls  met  at  the  desk  to  give  in  their  papers.  Chris- 
tina noticed  Olive's  face,  seemed  on  the  verge  of  speak- 
ing, and  then  turned  away. 

Christina  knew  that  she  had  done  well.  She  had 
answered  every  question.  She  had  been  a  little  in 
doubt  as  to  the  date  of  Austerlitz,  and  had  made  a 
shot.  The  shot,  she  found  on  referring  to  her  history, 
had  been  singularly  blessed.  But,  even  as  she  turned 
the  pages  of  the  history,  she  was  haunted  by  that  look 
of  Olive's.  What  could  have  happened  to  her  ?  Chris- 
tina felt  that  she  must  find  out,  and  for  that  purpose 
she  sought  Minna  Nathan.  Minna  was  not  popular, 
and  knew  far  too  much  arithmetic;  but  Minna  had 


CHRISLMISSIMA  125 

also  a  gift  for  knowing  the  private  affairs  of  other 
girls. 

"Come  here,  Minna,"  said  Christina,  with  dignity. 
"Now,  then,  what  has  Olive  been  crying  about?" 

"Don't  you  know?  Her  mother's  ill,  and  there's 
to  be  an  operation  to-morrow  morning.  I  believe 
she'll  die ;  they  generally  do  when  there's  an  operation. 
I'll  have  a  bet  with  you  on  it,  if  you  like." 

"No.    Go  on." 

"That's  all.  Oh,  yes,  she's  to  get  a  telegram  to- 
morrow morning.  She  didn't  seem  to  want  to  talk 
about  it  much,  and  she's  gone  off  to  the  end  of  the 
garden  by  herself.  It's  ruined  her  chance  of  the  his- 
tory prize — she  says  that  half  the  time  she  didn't  know 
what  she  was  writing  about." 

"I  see,"  said  Christina. 

Christina  had  set  her  heart  on  that  history  prize. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  would  get  it,  and 
quite  suddenly  she  found  that  she  did  not  want  it  at 
all ;  the  only  thing  she  did  want  was  that  Olive  should 
have  it.  She  made  her  plan  on  the  instant. 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  want  to  know?"  asked 
the  obsequious  Minna.  "I  can  find  out  some  more  if 
you  like.  Mother  calls  me  her  little  detective." 

"Does  she?  Sweet  child!  No,  I  don't  want  any 
more.  By  the  way,  you're  all  wrong  about  the  history 
prize.  The  paper  didn't  suit  me  a  bit.  I  made  a  lot  of 
howlers,  and  some  of  the  questions  I  never  even  tried." 

Minna  went  off,  eager  to  disseminate  the  news  of 
Christina's  failure.  Christina  could  generally  calculate 
on  what  Minna  would  do. 

Olive  sat  alone  on  a  bench  at  the  further  end  of  the 
garden.  It  was  very  cold,  but  she  did  not  notice  it;  the 


126        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

evergreens  shut  out  from  her  view  the  terrible  world. 
In  one  red  hand  she  held  a  wet  handkerchief,  and  in 
the  other  the  letter  from  her  father. 

After  all,  it  contained  crumbs  of  comfort.  "I  hope 
to  send  you  a  reassuring  telegram  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," it  said.  "Don't  be  frightened."  She  read  the 
sentences  over  and  over  again.  Oh,  if  she  only  had 
somebody  to  whom  she  could  really  talk  about  it !  In 
the  old  days 

She  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep,  and  there 
was  Christina — Christina,  with  both  hands  stretched 
out — Chrisimissima,  with  no  dignity  at  all,  and  visible 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Olive  dear!  don't  tell  me  to  go  away,  or  be 
polite  or  anything.  I've  only  just  heard,  and  I'm 
most  awfully  sorry  for  you.  And  I  wish  I  hadn't  be- 
haved like  a  pig  and  a  beast  to  you.  O-oh,  o-oh, 
o-oh!"  Christina  was  sobbing. 

"Oh,  Chrisimissima!"  They  became  inarticulate, 
with  their  arms  round  one  another. 

A  little  later  they  read  the  letter  together.  And  it 
appeared  that  Christina's  mother  had  undergone  an 
operation,  and  had  got  well  again  ever  so  soon;  and 
that,  on  the  whole,  operations  were  rather  a  good 
thing,  because  doctors  were  most  frightfully  clever 
nowadays. 

Olive  was  much  comforted,  and  the  delicate  question 
of  the  history  prize  was  touched  upon.  "Of  course 
I've  lost  it,"  said  Olive.  "Really,  I  hardly  knew  what 
I  was  writing,  and  I  couldn't  think.  But  I'm  glad 
you'll  have  it.  The  only  thing  is  that  my  people  will 
be  disappointed — mummy  particularly;  and  I  hope  it 
won't  be  bad  for  her.  You  see,  history's  about  the 
only  thing  I  was  ever  any  good  at." 


CHRISIMISSIMA  127 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Christina.  "It's  absolutely 
certain  you've  got  the  prize.  I  can  promise  you  that. 
The  paper  didn't  suit  me  in  the  least,  and  none  of  the 
things  that  I  had  worked  up  were  asked.  I  was  per- 
fectly putrid.  I  didn't  even  try  half  the  questions." 

"I  did  more  than  that,"  said  Olive  doubtfully. 
"But,  still " 

They  compared  notes.  Christina  repeated  her  as- 
surance. Olive  would  get  the  prize,  and  Chrisimis- 
sima  would  be  delighted. 

It  happened  even  as  Christina  had  said.  The  his- 
tory prize  was  awarded  to  Olive,  who  wondered  how 
it  had  come  to  pass,  but  telegraphed  the  glad  news 
home  to  a  convalescent  mother.  Christina  was  told 
that  her  answers  had  been  scanty  and  inaccurate. 
"You  have  disappointed  me,"  said  Miss  Ferdinand. 
Christina  smiled  sweetly. 

Now,  Christina  had  done  well  in  the  examination, 
Olive  had  done  badly,  Miss  Ferdinand  marked  the 
papers  fairly,  and  yet  Olive  got  the  prize.  The  ex- 
planation is  simple  enough. 

The  position  of  monitor  carried  with  it  the  very 
high  privilege  of  acting  as  occasional  errand-girl  to 
Miss  Ferdinand.  It  was  always  Christina  who  was 
deputed  to  bring  the  pile  of  examination  papers  from 
the  class-room  to  Miss  Ferdinand's  study. 

"Here  is  the  key  to  the  desk  in  which  the  papers 
are,"  said  Miss  Ferdinand  solemnly.  "And  remember, 
Christina,  that  I  am  trusting  to  your  honor." 

Christina  had  only  to  transpose  her  own  papers  and 
Olive's,  changing  the  outer  sheets  which  alone  bore 
the  competitor's  name.  The  close  similarity  of  their 
handwritings  prevented  any  detection  of  the  fraud. 
Often  in  the  old  days  had  Olive  written  half  of  Chris- 


128        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

tina's  imposition  for  her,  or  Christina  rendered  a  simi- 
lar service  to  Olive. 

Chrisimissima  had  been  insanely  jealous.  She  had 
told  fibs.  She  had,  in  the  matter  of  the  examination 
papers,  been  guilty  of  a  dishonorable  breach  of  trust. 
Can  anything  be  said  for  her? 


XI 
A  VICIOUS  CIRCLE 

ILLUSTRATIVE   OF   THE  INSTINCT    OF   THE   CAT  AND 
OF   THE    DOG 


LADY  VERMOISE  did  not  ask  Mrs.  Palton  for 
the  1 4th,  when  many  desirable  people  would 
have  been  met.  Now,  Lady  Vermoise  had  professed 
affection  for  Angela  Palton,  and  was  distantly  related 
to  her. 

It  may  have  been  carelessness  on  the  part  of  Lady 
Vermoise.  It  may  have  been  a  reflection  that  Mrs. 
Palton  was  "not  quite — well,  just  a  little  •  rather,  eh? 
You  know  what  I  mean."  And  it  may  have  been  a 
touch  of  conscience  that  made  Lady  Vermoise  ask  Mrs. 
Palton  for  the  iQth,  when,  however,  on  her  own  show- 
ing there  would  be  nobody  but  George  (George  is  a 
perfect  idiot). 

Mrs.  Palton's  refusal  for  the  iQth  was  perfectly 
charming  and  polite.  "I  don't  dream  of  letting  her 
think  that  I've  taken  offense,"  she  said  to  her  husband. 
"All  the  same " 

ii 

MRS.  PALTON'S  cook,  Emma  Blades,  was  a  woman  of 
character,  three  years  in  her  last  place,  an  early  riser, 

129 


130        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

fond  of  children,  and  had  other  qualities  which  deserve 
and  should  receive  our  admiration  and  respect. 

Mrs.  Palton  gave  one  of  her  dinner-parties — bien- 
nial, allowing  time  for  recovery  before  the  next. 
Emma  Blades  did  her  very  best.  She  did  not  spare 
herself.  Everything  was  beautiful. 

Mrs.  Palton  may  have  been  tired  next  morning — 
could  you  wonder?  It  may  have  simply  never  oc- 
curred to  her.  Certainly  she  omitted  any  word  of 
compliment  to  Emma  Blades  next  morning,  and  Emma 
noticed  it. 

Mrs.  Palton  showed  more  thought  fulness  later  in 
the  day,  when  she  reflected  that  there  would  only  be 
the  cutlets  to  warm  up,  to  be  followed  by  the  remainder 
macedoine,  and  told  Emma  that  she  could  go  out  that 
evening. 

"Thank  you  very  muchum,"  said  Emma  Blades. 
"I'd  prefer  not  to."  It  was  said  with  a  refrigerated 
respectfulness. 

"Ho,  yes,"  said  Emma  Blades  to  the  house-parlorer 
after,  "I  wasn't  going  to  show  I'd  troubled  my  'ead 
about  it.  But,  however,  when  it  comes  to  favors " 


in 


EMMA  BLADES  was  not  only  aunt,  but  also  godmother 
to  her  married  sister's  youngest,  Doris,  aged  ten,  who 
needs  to  control  her  temper — her  mother  has  admitted 
it.  And  Emma  Blades  practically  never  forgot  that 
Doris  had  a  birthday  on  May  3,  and  signified  the  same 
in  the  usual  manner. 

But,   of  course,  a  biennial   dinner-party   may   put 
everything  out  of  anybody's  head.     Besides,   Emma 


A  VICIOUS  CIRCLE  131 

had  a  bad  memory  for  dates.  It  was  June  7  before 
she  discovered  that  she  had  forgotten  our  Doris's 
birthday.  She  hastened  at  once  to  an  act  of  repara- 
tion. 

She  sent  Doris  macaroons — and  it  is  none  of  your 
business  where  Emma  Blades  got  them  from.  They 
were  packed  in  the  card  box  which  had  contained  the 
house-parlorer's  collars,  and  enclosed  with  them  was 
an  old  birthday-card  which  Emma  had  bread-crumbed 
from  a  love  of  cleanliness,  and  very  nearly  fried  from 
the  force  of  natural  sequence. 

And  Doris  wrote  on  a  post  card:  "Dear  Arnty, 
Meny  thanks  for  your  kind  biskwits." 

"For  she  shan't  think  I  care,"  said  Doris.  Not- 
withstanding, not  one  of  those  biscuits  would  she  eat. 
She  gave  them  to  a  strange  dog  in  the  park. 


IV 


Now,  that  dog  was  the  property  of  Lady  Vermoise. 
It  had  been  sent  out  for  exercise  with  the  second 
footman.  But  the  second  footman  was  heavy  with 
Benedictine;  for,  as  he  had  observed  to  the  first 
footman,  if  he  did  not  take  it,  somebody  else  would, 
so  he  had  slept  in  Battersea  Park  and  left  the  physical 
development  to  the  dog. 

It  was  a  small  black  dog,  reputed  to  be  of  Japanese 
extraction.  It  was  all  fluff  and  bark.  Lady  Vermoise 
called  the  black  dog  "Snowball."  In  fact,  all  her 
ladyship's  friends  admitted  that  she  was  full  of  hu- 
mor; and,  after  all,  it  is  what  our  friends  say  about 
us  which  really  matters. 

At   tea-time    the    second    footman,    by    command, 


132         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

brought  in  Snowball.  No  dog  is  really  the  better  for 
four  large  macaroons,  and  in  any  case  there  was  some- 
thing Japanese  and  bizarre  about  Snowball's  disposi- 
tion. He  lay  under  a  chair  and  snarled. 

"Know  what  that  means?"  Lady  Vermoise  asked 
her  guests  brightly.  "Snowball  and  I  are  not  quite — 
just  a  teeny-weeny — well,  he  had  to  have  a  little  lesson 
from  me.  Dogs  that  snatch  at  things  which  are  offered 
them  have  them  taken  away  again,  don't  they,  Snow- 
ball? It  happened  at  breakfast-time.  You  should 
witness  an  interesting  rapprochement.  Here,  Snow- 
ball, is  the  shortbread  to  which  you  are  addicted. 
Gently  now.  De  la  douceur,  Boule-de-neige,  calme-toi 
tes  transports!" 

Upon  which  Snowball,  with  rapidity  and  decision, 
bit  Lady  Vermoise  in  the  fleshy  part  of  her  hand. 


XII 
SUNNIBROW 

OR,  WHAT  THE  PRACTICAL  BUILDER  SAID  TO  THE  YOUNG 

MAN 

WISH  you  was  me,  young  man,  do  you?  You 
young  chaps  who  make  a  mess  at  one  trade 
always  think  you  could  have  succeeded  at  any  other. 
If  you  think  that  building  houses,  and  letting  them, 
and  keeping  them  let,  is  as  easy  as  falling  downstairs, 
you're  mistaken.  It  needs  knowledge,  and  it  needs 
hard  work.  I've  worked  hard,  and  I've  got  the  knowl- 
edge. There's  nobody  can  tell  me  anything  about 
mortar  I  don't  know.  Didn't  know  I  ever  used  any? 
Thank  you;  I  don't  want  any  jokes  of  that  kind. 
I'm  a  respectable  tradesman,  with  a  reputation  which 
I  study. 

Yes;  and  when  you've  done  the  work  and  got  the 
knowledge,  you  may  make  losses  through  not  having 
forecast  the  unforeseeable.  That's  what  happened  to 
me  with  that  blackguard  Pirbright  and  my  row  of 
little  houses  at  Dyrtisea.  I'll  just  tell  you  about  that, 
and  then  you'll  see  it  ain't  all  velvet  in  my  trade. 

Dyrtisea  will  be  a  fine  place  one  of  these  days.  It 
only  wants  a  little  enterprise  on  the  part  of  the  local 
inhabitants.  You  can't  make  a  first-class  seaside  re- 
sort out  of  nothing.  I  got  my  bit  of  ground  there  on 
favorable  terms.  There  was  a  big  land  sale,  and  free 


134        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

lunch  in  the  marquee  on  the  estate,  as  per  advertise- 
ment. I  .sat  and  ate  my  lunch,  and  then  I  sat  and 
looked  on  at  the  auction,  and  said  nothing.  There  is 
mostly  a  mug  at  these  sales,  and  I  was  watching  for 
one.  I  found  him.  He  was  a  mug  that  had  bitten  off 
more  than  he  could  chew.  ,  Just  after  lunch  some 
people  feel  richer  than  they  are. 

So  I  had  a  little  chat  with  him  afterwards,  and  made 
myself  as  pleasant  as  I  could.  I  told  him  he'd  given 
too  much  for  his  land,  and  that  he'd  never  see  his 
money  back,  nor  half  of  it.  Land  at  Dyrtisea  was 
no  more  use  than  a  sick-headache  to  most  people. 
However,  when  a  gentleman  was  buying  for  himself, 
that  was  different  from  a  commercial  speculation. 

He  said  he  was  afraid  he'd  bought  more  than  he 
intended,  and  he  had  meant  to  put  up  houses  there. 
He  had  bought  speculatively,  in  fact.  So  I  gave  him 
my  card,  with  a  few  appropriate  remarks.  There  were 
other  builders  there,  chaps  that  were  just  simply  on 
the  make,  and  I  gave  him  a  friendly  warning  of  what 
he  might  expect  if  he  fell  into  their  hands. 

"And,"  I  said,  "as  a  proof  that  I'm  straight  with 
you,  I  advise  you  to  take  what  you  can  get  for  your 
land,  and  cut  the  loss,  even  though  it  loses  me  the  job 
of  building  for  you.  I  could  see  they  were  running  you 
up  at  the  auction,  and  I  only  wish  I  could  have  got 
near  enough  to  you  to  have  given  you  a  hint  then." 

He  thanked  me.  Two  months  later  I'd  bought  most 
of  his  land,  at  what  I  should  call  a  reasonable  reduc- 
tion; and  that  wasn't  all.  I  got  the  job  of  putting  up 
a  house  for  him  on  the  bit  he  kept ;  and  even  after  I'd 
compromised  the  auction  it  left  a  profit,  so  that  was  all 
right. 

Then  I  ran  up  my  row  of  six  houses,  and  called 


SUNNIBROW  135 

them  Carlton  Terrace.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  song 
"Once,  in  the  dear,  dead  days  beyond  recall"?  Carl- 
ton  Terrace  at  Dyrtisea  always  reminds  me  of  that. 

Yes;  my  boy,  those  were  the  times.  Nowadays 
over-inspection  is  simply  cutting  into  the  heart  of  the 
trade.  But  at  Dyrtisea  then  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  that  a  practical  builder  couldn't  get  round 
somehow,  and  I  did  get  round.  I  wasn't  forced  to 
throw  a  lot  of  money  away  over  silly  regulations.  My 
idea  was  to  let  those  houses  for  three  years,  and  then 
paint  them  up  a  bit  and  fill  in  where  necessary,  and 
sell  the  lot.  After  three  years,  knowing  the  houses,  I 
knew  they'd  be  about  ripe  for  getting  rid  of. 

I  wrote  my  own  advertisement,  and  I  didn't  leave 
anything  out.  It  said :  "Builder's  sacrifice. — On  the 
outskirts  of  the  lovely  old-world  village  of  Dyrtisea, 
and  commanding  magnificent  views  of  the  English 
Channel.  Compact  seven-roomed  residence,  tiled 
forecourt,  electric  bells,  and  every  modern  luxury. 
Only  needs  to  be  seen."  And  so  forth  and  so  on. 

I  let  my  first  tenant  in  pretty  easy  to  give  the  thing 
a  start;  and,  seeing  the  bargain  he  got,  I  wasn't  best 
pleased  when  he  died  of  double  pneumonia,  and  his 
widow  came  complaining  to  me. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said.  "I  let  your  husband 
a  house,  and  let  him  have  it  cheap.  I  never  told  him 
to  move  in  before  the  plaster  was  dry.  You  be  thank- 
ful I'm  not  bringing  an  action  for  moral  deterioration 
of  my  property." 

So  that  settled  her. 

Then  another  tenant  got  typhoid,  and  complained 
about  the  plumber's  work.  Things  had  been  a  little 
cut  down  on  that  side.  But,  as  I  said  to  him,  you 
chaps  nowadays  expect  a  marble  bath  and  silver 


136        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

fittings  in  a  twenty-eight-pound  house,  and  it  can't  be 
done.  Well,  I  sent  a  man  to  do  a  little  to  some  of  the 
leaky  joints,  and  that  kept  him  quiet. 

However,  by  giving  the  thing  my  personal  attention, 
I  soon  got  five  out  of  my  six  houses  let  to  good  tenants 
on  yearly  agreements ;  and  the  agreements  were  drawn 
to  my  own  model,  and  had  got  more  catches  in  them 
than  any  fly-paper.  There  was  only  Sunnibrow  left, 
and  one  unlucky  day  I  let  that  to  this  man  Pirbright. 
He  said  he  was  a  traveller  for  a  firm  of  cycle  manu- 
facturers, and  he  paid  a  quarter  in  advance.  He  was  a 
hard-faced  man,  and  I  was  a  little  surprised  that  he 
took  my  special  kind  of  yearly  agreement  as  easily  as 
he  did. 

And  he'd  hardly  moved  his  sticks  in  before  the  row 
began.  I  got  St.  Mildred's  and  The  Chase  both  com- 
ing in  and  complaining  about  the  man  at  Sunnibrow. 
St.  Mildred's  and  The  Chase  were  the  two  houses  ad- 
joining Sunnibrow,  and  they  were  let  to  my  prize 
tenants.  They  made  their  garden  look  nice,  and  they 
had  window-boxes,  and  planted  creepers.  (Didn't 
know  I  cared  so  much  about  flowers,  didn't  you  ?  Why, 
I  could  let  a  dog-kennel  with  the  roof  off  and  the 
bottom  out  if  it  only  had  a  Virginian  creeper  growing 
up  the  front.) 

They  never  gave  any  trouble;  and  when  the  walls 
cracked  they  just  filled  up  the  cracks  and  re-papered  at 
their  own  expense.  And  The  Chase  had  put  up  a 
little  greenhouse,  that  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  take 
away  with  him  when  he  went.  They  complained  that 
on  Tuesday  night  there  had  been  a  most  awful  noise 
at  Sunnibrow — violent  banging  against  the  walls,  loud 
screaming,  and  what  The  Chase  called  "demoniac 
laughter."  It  was  so  bad  that  St.  Mildred's  went 


SUNNIBROW  137 

round  to  Sunnibrow  to  see  what  was  the  matter;  but 
though  he  knocked  and  rang  several  times,  he  could 
get  no  answer,  and  the  whole  house  seemed  to  be  in 
darkness.  Yet  the  noises  went  on  worse  than  ever. 

"We  put  up  with  the  cracks  in  the  walls,"  said 
The  Chase,  "you  having  told  us  that  every  new  house 
was  bound  to  settle  if  properly  built;  but  this  is  a 
case  where  we  must  really  ask  you  to  do  something." 

"So  I  will,"  I  said.  "I'll  do  pretty  well  anything 
in  reason  for  good  tenants,  like  you  and  St.  Mildred's. 
I'll  go  round  to  Sunnibrow  this  morning — ill  though 
I  can  spare  the  time — and  just  remind  him  of  the 
terms  of  his  agreement.  If  he  causes  you  the  slightest 
trouble  or  inconvenience,  then  out  he  goes." 

And  I  meant  it,  too.  Under-pinning  costs  a  deal, 
but  it  wouldn't  cost  me  anything  to  frighten  Pirbright. 
Both  St.  Mildred's  and  The  Chase  paid  punctually, 
and  were  a  much  softer  thing  than  one  generally  comes 
across  in  business.  Then,  again,  I  didn't  like  that  talk 
of  "violent  banging  against  the  walls."  You  see,  I 
knew  those  walls.  They  were  all  right  for  the  ordinary 
wear  and  tear  of  a  Christian  home,  but  they'd  never 
been  constructed  to  stand  horseplay.  I  slipped  on  my 
coat  and  hat,  and  went  round  to  Sunnibrow  at  once. 
Pirbright  answered  the  door  himself. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "This  is  lucky.  I  was  just 
going  to  see  you  about  that  waste-pipe  from  the  sink. 
What's  wrong  is " 

"Yes,"  I  said ;  "but  I've  got  to  talk  about  some- 
thing much  worse  than  that.  I  mean,  what  was  going 
on  in  this  house  on  the  night  of  Tuesday  last?  I've 
had  complaints  about  the  noise  from  St.  Mildred's  and 
also  from  The  Chase." 


138        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Tuesday  night?"  he  said.  "Why,  I  wasn't  here 
then.  I'm  often  away  on  my  business." 

"So  you  say,"  I  said.     "Very  naturally.     But— 

"Well,"  he  said  savagely,  "look  at  this  letter,  and 
the  postmarks  on  the  envelope." 

I  looked  at  it  very  carefully.  It  was  a  letter  to  him 
from  his  firm,  dated  on  the  Monday.  It  was  addressed 
to  an  hotel  in  Liverpool,  and  the  envelope  bore  Tues- 
day's postmark,  and  had  not  been  re-addressed.  And 
the  letter  referred  to  business  in  Liverpool  which  was 
to  occupy  him  on  the  Wednesday;  and  I  remembered 
that  St.  Mildred's  had  been  unable  to  get  any  answer 
to  a  ring,  and  had  seen  no  light  in  the  house. 

Still,  I  knew  for  a  certainty  that  St.  Mildred's  and 
The  Chase  would  not  have  complained  without  a 
reason;  and  his  explanation  might  be  satisfactory, 
so  far  as  he  personally  was  concerned,  but,  even  if  he 
had  not  made  the  row  himself,  he  was  the  tenant,  and 
responsible  for  the  people  who  had  made  it. 

And  so  I  told  him. 

"I  don't  care,"  I  said,  "whether  it  was  you  that 
made  the  row,  or  whether  it  was  your  servant  or  your 
friends,  or  your  servant's  friends.  If  I  get  any  more 
of  it,  I'll  turn  you  out;  and  if  you  think  I  can't  do 
that,  just  glance  over  the  clause  at  the  bottom  of  page 
three  of  your  agreement." 

"I  don't  keep  a  servant,"  said  Pirbright.  "I  man- 
age for  myself.  And  I've  never  had  any  friends  here. 
I  was  just  getting  the  home  ready  to  bring  my  wife 
to — I'm  to  be  married  in  a  month's  time.  Looks  to 
me  like  a  bit  of  a  mystery." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  what  it  looks  like  to  you.  You're 
responsible;  and  if  it  happens  again,  you  know  now 
what  to  expect.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say  about  it." 


SUNNIBROW  139 

"Ah,"  said  Pirbright,  "then  we  can  go  on  to  the 
subject  of  that  pipe.  The  waste-pipe,  as  fixed  at 
present,  discharges  direct  into " 

"I've  no  time  to  talk  about  that  now.  Before  you 
ask  a  landlord  to  provide  you,  at  his  own  expense,  with 
extra  luxuries  and  improvements,  you'd  better  show 
yourself  a  more  desirable  tenant.  Good  morning!" 

And  I  thought  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

Next  day  I  saw  Pirbright  helping  St.  Mildred's  to 
nail  up  a  creeper,  and  chatting  away  as  friendly  as 
possible ;  and,  later  in  the  week,  I  found  he  was  having 
tea  at  The  Chase,  and  St.  Mildred's  and  his  wife  were 
there,  too.  So  it  looked  as  if  everything  was  forgiven 
and  forgotten,  and  all  was  peace  and  happiness  again. 

Next  Sunday  I  met  St.  Mildred's  and  The  Chase  out 
for  a  walk  together,  and  they  came  up  to  say  that  they 
had  been  mistaken,  and  that  Pirbright  was  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  row  on  Tuesday  night. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  St.  Mildred's,  "we've 
got  to  know  him,  and  a  very  pleasant  fellow  he  seems. 
We  are  satisfied  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  was 
in  Sunnibrow  that  night." 

"Well,  well,"  I  said,  "we  needn't  go  into  that.  So 
long  as  the  row  doesn't  happen  again,  we  can  let 
bygones  be  bygones." 

"But  the  row  does  go  on,"  said  The  Chase.  "It's 
worse  than  ever.  The  banging  at  the  walls  is  louder, 
and  there  is  more  of  the  screaming  and  demoniac 
laughter.  But  it  never  happens  when  Pirbright's  in  the 
house — never  once.  In  fact,  we've  begun  to  look  on 
him  as  a  kind  of  safeguard.  We  should  feel  very 
uneasy  if  he  went  altogether." 

"It  looks  to  me,"  said  St.  Mildred's,  "like  a  case 
for  the  Psychical  Society." 


STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  Chase,  "you  didn't  find  any- 
thing curious  when  you  were  digging  out  the  founda- 
tions or  levelling  the  garden  ?" 

"I  found  a  patch  of  sand,  which  I  hadn't  expected; 
and  if  I'd  found  it  a  bit  earlier  it  would  have  saved  me 
money  over  building  the  other  houses." 

"Yes,"  said  The  Chase;  "what  I  meant  was — did 
you  find  human  remains,  or  anything  of  that  kind?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  did  not.  And  I  hope  both  you 
gentlemen  will  put  any  idea  of  that  kind  out  of  your 
heads.  That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  do  house  property 
any  good,  and  there  can't  be  any  foundation  for  it.  A 
house  that  was  built  the  day  before  yesterday,  like 
Sunnibrow,  can't  be  a  haunted  house.  It's  against 
the  rules.  Ask  any  man  who's  studied  these  things, 
and  he'll  tell  you  that." 

"Still,"  said  St.  Mildred's,  "there  are  the  facts. 
We've  investigated  those  noises,  and  we  can't  find 
anything  to  explain  them.  Then  there's  the  figure  of 
a  woman  in  white.  That's  been  seen  twice  in  the 
terrace  late  at  night — once  by  Mr.  Proud  foot  of 
Stanley  Court,  and  once  by  Mrs.  Johnson  of  Herne 
Nest.  Then  there's  the  loud  cracking  noise  at  The 
Pleasaunce :  Mr.  Smith  has  always  put  it  down  to 
the  house  settling  so  far,  but  now  he  says  he's  not  so 
sure  about  it." 

Now,  that  made  me  pretty  angry.  Here  was  every 
blessed  tenant  bitten  with  this  ghostly  nonsense,  and 
I  knew  it  was  that  blackguard  Pirbright  who'd  done  it. 
A  pretty  business  it  would  be  for  me  if  they  all  cleared 
out.  With  the  talk  it  would  make  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, it  would  be  a  long  time  before  I  could  let  a  house 
in  Carlton  Terrace  again. 

"Look  here,  gentlemen,"  I  said:   "this  is  simply 


SUNNIBROW  141 

and  solely  a  trick  of  that  Pirbright's.  Now,  I'm  going 
to  do  just  two  things :  first,  I'm  going  to  find  out  how 
he  worked  the  trick,  and  then  I'm  going  to  give  him 
the  sack;  and  if  there's  any  ghostly  manifestation 
after  he's  gone,  I'll  eat  my  hat." 

They  told  me  I  was  mistaken  in  my  estimate  of 
Pirbright. 

"We'll  see,"  I  said. 

So  next  morning  I  hung  about  the  terrace  until  I 
saw  Pirbright  leave  his  house.  I  had  my  own  private 
key  to  the  front  door  of  Sunnibrow;  and  as  soon  as 
Pirbright  was  out  of  sight,  I  let  myself  in.  I  examined 
the  whole  house  from  top  to  bottom,  and  only  one 
little  thing  did  I  find  that  looked  at  all  suspicious. 
And  when  I  got  outside  the  house  again,  there  was 
Pirbright  standing  in  the  garden. 

"Hallo !"  he  said.    "What  are  you  doing  there?" 

"Landlord  has  reasonable  access,"  I  said. 

"That  be  damned!  Letting  yourself  in  by  your 
own  key  without  notice  ain't  reasonable  access.  It's 
more  like  burglary." 

"You'll  find  what  I  mean  by  reasonable  access  in 
clause  forty-three  of  your  agreement.  I  thought,  Mr. 
Pirbright,  you  told  me  you  were  living  alone."  • 

"So  I  am." 

"Well,  I  found  this  hairpin  in  the  passage." 

"Very  likely.  I'd  the  whole  family  in  from  next 
door  yesterday  afternoon,  investigating  these  rum- 
funny  noises." 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "and  I  told  you  that  if  that  dis- 
turbance was  repeated,  you'd  go.  It  has  been  repeated. 
To-day's  Monday.  You  can  clear  yourself  and  your 
furniture  out  of  this  by  next  Saturday  morning  at  the 
latest." 


142        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  should  like  to  have  that 
in  writing,  if  you  wouldn't  mind  stepping  inside  once 
more." 

So  I  gave  him  it  in  writing,  and  he  took  it  quite 
cheerfully. 

"Right,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  out  by  Saturday. 
And  you'll  hear  from  my  solicitors  in  the  course  of  the 
week." 

Next  day  I  got  notice  from  St.  Mildred's  and  The 
Chase.  And  the  day  following  I  got  similar  notice 
from  Herne  Nest,  Stanley  Court,  and  The  Pleasaunce. 

And  that's  the  kind  of  thing  that  a  man  in  my 
business  may  be  called  upon  to  face ! 

Well,  I  know  when  I'm  beaten.  I  went  round  to 
Sunnibrow  in  the  afternoon,  and  this  time  I  rang  the 
bell. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Pirbright,"  I  said.  "I  called 
to  tell  you  not  to  take  any  notice  of  what  I  said  and 
wrote  on  Monday.  Perhaps  we  both  lost  our  tempers 
a  little.  We'll  just  tear  that  paper  up." 

"Well,"  said  Pirbright,  "I  don't  know  that  I  care 
about  stopping.  It'll  be  lonely  with  every  other  house 
in  the  row  empty." 

"I  fancy,"  I  said,  "that  if  you  and  I  had  a  friendly 
chat,  none  of  these  houses  would  be  empty,  and  you'd 
all  be  spared  the  trouble  and  expense  of  moving." 

"It's  possible,"  he  said.    "Come  in." 

"Now,  then,"  I  said,  "if  I  could  prove  all  I  know, 
I  fancy  the  Court  would  award  me  heavy  damages." 

"Very  likely.  Being  awarded  heavy  damages  is 
one  thing;  getting  pudding  out  of  empty  saucepans 
is  another." 

"That  thought  had  occurred  to  me.  Well,  it  has 
also  occurred  to  me  that  a  man  who  starts  a  thing  can 


SUNNIBROW  143 

sometimes  stop  it — whether  it's  a  ghost-story  or  any- 
thing else." 

"That  is  so,  if  it's  worth  the  man's  while." 

And  so  we  came  to  terms.  But  that  man  Pirbright 
was  absolutely  unconscionable.  He  got  a  twenty-eight- 
pound  house  for  twenty  pounds,  and  an  agreement 
that  was  against  the  landlord's  interests,  and  a  whole 
lot  of  plumbing  work  done  for  nothing.  But  it  was 
better  than  having  six  houses  standing  empty ;  and  my 
tenants  didn't  leave  after  all. 

Must  have  had  a  confederate?  Well,  I  knew  that, 
of  course.  As  soon  as  it  was  all  settled,  he  said : 

"And  my  missus  will  move  in  to-morrow.  She's 
been  living  in  lodgings  in  Dyrtisea  till  I  got  the  place 
straight  for  her.  She's  been  up  here  sometimes  at 
nights;  and  it's  just  occurred  to  me  that  she's  about 
the  figure  of  that  mysterious  woman  in  white  that 
they've  been  talking  about.  She's  as  handy  with  a 
hammer  as  any  man — opening  crates  and  putting  up 
pictures.  I  couldn't  stand  the  noise,  so  she  only  did 
it  when  I  was  out — she'd  always  got  her  gramophone 
to  keep  her  company." 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  see  that.  But  you  told  me  you 
were  a  bachelor,  going  to  be  married  in  a  month's 
time." 

"Did  I?"  he  said.  "Well,  I  never  mind  owning 
when  I'm  wrong.  I  must  have  been  thinking  of  some 
other  man." 


XIII 
AUNT  MARTHA 

GEORGE,  who  knew  his  duty  and  did  it,  was 
particularly  careful  to  ask  Aunt  Martha  if  she 
was  not  coming  too.  She  said  she  was  not.  She  said 
that  George's  ideas  of  amusement  were  not  hers.  She 
referred  to  her  time  of  life.  George's  wife,  Jane,  then 
tackled  Aunt  Martha  herself,  and  said  that  it  was 
the  fresh  air  she  ought  to  think  about.  'Aunt  Martha 
said  that,  not  being  in  the  habit  of  sucking  sweets  all 
day  herself,  she  was  not  in  want  of  any  change  of  air 
or  doctor's  prescriptions.  George  went  a  step  further. 
He  took  his  daughter  Gladys  aside  and  told  her  that 
she  really  ought  to  ask  Aunt  Martha  to  come  up  to 
the  Heath  with  them. 

"What?"  said  Gladys,  a  child  of  sound  sense.  "Me 
ask  her?  Come  off  it!" 

This  ended  the  matter  as  far  as  Gladys  was  con- 
cerned. Privately  George  and  Jane  congratulated 
themselves.  "She  is  a  good  woman,"  said  George, 
"but  she's  not  one  to  enjoy  herself." 

"No,"  said  Jane,  "nor  let  others,  neither." 

Therefore  it  was  a  bit  of  a  shock  when  Aunt  Martha 
appeared  on  the  Monday  morning  with  her  loins  girt, 
so  to  speak,  and  ready  for  the  expedition. 

"I  have  given  in  to  you  this  once,"  she  said,  "and 
hope  I  shan't  be  sorry  for  it.  It  looks  to  me  like  rain. 

144 


AUNT  MARTHA  145 

Anyhow,  I  shall  be  there  to  stop  any  waste  of  money 
and  lolloping  about  in  public-houses." 

Aunt  Martha  preferred  the  inside  of  the  tram.  The 
rest  of  the  party  preferred  the  outside. 

"Then  you  go  in,  aunt,  and  we'll  go  out,"  said 
Jane. 

"Then  how  am  I  to  know  where  I  am  to  get  out  ?  I 
wonder  you  can  be  so  selfish." 

George,  a  noble-hearted  fellow,  went  inside  with 
Aunt  Martha.  He  had  a  very  fair  twopenny  smoke 
in  one  pocket,  and  his  pipe  and  pouch  in  another.  He 
was  also  well  provided  with  matches.  As  the  tram 
rumbled  along  he  had  leisure  to  think  about  these 
things. 

"You  needn't  have  told  me,"  said  Aunt  Martha  at 
the  journey's  end,  "that  the  trams  went  right  up  to 
the  Heath,  because  they  don't." 

"Well,  it's  only  a  step,"  said  George  apologetically. 

"It's  long  enough  for  Gladys  to  get  lost,  such  a 
crowd  as  there  is.  You  give  me  your  hand,  Gladys. 
Now,  then,  George,  don't  stop  about  trying  to  light 
that  cigar  of  yours." 

Gladys  suggested  the  purchase  of  a  tin  rattle,  of  a 
blue  turquoise  bracelet — more  or  less  turquoise,  that  is 
— of  some  peacocks'  feathers,  of  a  bag  of  lavender,  and 
of  a  paper  hat  made  on  a  concertina  principle.  These 
propositions  were  successively  negatived  by  Aunt 
Martha,  who  observed  that  little  girls  were  made  to 
be  seen  and  not  heard,  and  if  she  asked  for  anything 
else,  she  would  be  sent  home  immediately.  By  a  clever 
piece  of  strategy  Gladys  managed  to  transfer  herself 
from  her  aunt  to  her  father.  She  tied  the  coppers  up 
in  a  corner  of  her  handkerchief  and  quite  understood 
that  she  need  not  say  anything  to  Aunt  Martha  about 


146        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

them.     The  question  of  when  and  where  they  should 
feed  arose  for  discussion. 

"It's  all  one  to  me,"  said  Aunt  Martha.  "Settle  it 
for  yourselves.  Apparently  anything  I  like  is  what 
everybody  else  dislikes.  It  was  so  in  the  tram  coming 
here,  and  it'll  go  on  being  so  till  the  end  of  the  day. 
The  very  moment  we  got  out,  George  started  on  his 
cigar,  which  was  just  the  same  as  if  he'd  told  me  to  my 
face  that  I'd  been  keeping  him  from  it.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  a  better  thing  for  his  health  if  I  could  keep 
him  from  it." 

The  family  decided  that  half-past  one  would  be  an 
excellent  hour  for  lunch,  and  that  a  shady  spot  should 
be  found  in  some  remote  part  of  the  Heath. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Martha,  "I  had  little  or  no 
breakfast,  and  I  feel  faint  now.  What  I  shall  be  like 
at  half-past  one  I  can't  say.  I  shan't  be  able  to  eat 
anything,  because  I  shall  have  gone  past  it.  I  thought 
we'd  come  here  to  see  things,  too,  so  what's  the  sense 
of  sitting  down  where  you  can't  see  anything?  As 
for  the  shade,  where  there's  shade  there's  damp. 
That's  a  well-known  fact.  Perhaps  you'd  better  just 
give  me  a  sandwich  and  let  me  go  off  by  myself.  I 
dare  say  you'll  all  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  me." 

George  and  Jane  told  the  requisite  lie.  Gladys 
maintained  a  contemptuous  silence.  So  they  sat  down 
in  the  sun  in  a  spot  from  which  a  fine  view  of  the 
cocoanut-shies  and  swings  was  to  be  obtained.  They 
ate  sandwiches  and  cake,  and  Gladys  and  Aunt  Martha 
drank  milk.  George  and  Jane  were  not  thirsty.  At 
any  rate,  they  were  not  thirsty  until  a  little  later,  when 
they  arrived  at  Jack  Straw's  Castle.  George  said  it 
was  a  historic  old  place,  and  Jane  ought  to  see  it. 


AUNT  MARTHA  147 

Perhaps  Aunt  Martha  would  catch  hold  of  Gladys  for 
a  moment. 

George  and  Jane  went  to  see  the  historic  old  place, 
and  came  out  wiping  their  mouths.  George  looked  as 
if  he  felt  better. 

"Booze,  booze,  booze,  from  morning  till  night,"  said 
Aunt  Martha.  "I  knew  how  it  would  be  when  we 
started." 

Jane  observed  that  she  thought  a  man  wanted  his 
pint  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  that  he  ought  to 
have  it. 

Aunt  Martha  said  that  if  she  was  to  be  contradicted 
every  time  she  opened  her  mouth,  perhaps  it  would 
be  just  as  well  if  she  said  nothing  at  all  for  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon.  In  fact,  she  would  start  off  home  at 
once  if  only  she  knew  the  way. 

Then  they  went  round  the  different  shows — boxing- 
shows  and  cinematograph-shows,  peep-shows,  and 
waxworks.  Aunt  Martha  gave  moral  and  conclusive 
reasons  why  she  would  not  go  into  any  one  of  them. 
George  shied  at  the  cocoanuts,  and  Aunt  Martha  said 
she  should  be  sorry  to  see  any  man  make  such  an 
exhibition  of  himself  in  a  public  place.  George  tried 
one  of  the  cocoanuts  that  he  had  won  as  a  peace- 
offering.  Aunt  Martha  rejected  it.  She  added  more 
information  about  her  digestion  and  her  internal  or- 
gans than  any  woman  ought  to  give  any  man  except 
her  doctor.  A  great  friend  of  Aunt  Martha's  had  died 
from  eating  cocoanut,  as  George  might  have  remem- 
bered. 

So  George  gave  the  cocoanut  to  Gladys.  She  made 
the  man  with  the  Try-your-Strength  machine  break  it 
open  for  her.  By  this  time  she  possessed  a  tin  rattle, 
a  bracelet  of  a  turquoise  appearance,  and  a  paper  hat. 


148        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Aunt  Martha  noticed  these  things.  If  George  and 
Jane  thought  it  a  good  thing  to  bring  up  children  to 
disobey  their  elders  and  betters,  she  supposed  she 
couldn't  help  it.  It  looked  as  if  she  had  only  been 
brought  out  to  be  insulted.  A  cup  of  tea  was  what  she 
wanted,  and  had  been  wanting  for  the  last  hour;  but 
she  supposed  that  that  didn't  matter. 

She  was  given  tea,  and  shortly  afterwards  the  party 
left  for  home. 

"And  I  suppose  you  call  that  a  day's  enjoyment," 
said  Aunt  Martha  bitterly. 

•  »*••• 

On  the  following  Bank  Holiday,  George  and  Jane 
found  that  they  had  promised  to  take  Gladys  to  the 
Zoo.  This  was  most  unfortunate,  because  the  very 
sight  of  a  wild  beast  caused  Aunt  Martha  to  come  over 
faint  and  gave  her  internal  cramp.  So  she  could  not 
accompany  them.  Perhaps  they  took  the  wrong  tram. 
They  turned  up  to  Hampstead  Heath,  anyhow. 


XIV 
A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  AND  A  TRADE  DESIGNER 

MR.  PAXTON  ELAND'S  clerks  were  in  the 
habit  of  saying  that  he  was  a  devil.  They 
respected  him,  but  thought  that  he  had  too  much 
energy.  Business  men  who  had  dealings  with  him  got 
to  realize  the  extreme  folly  of  monkeying  with  Pax- 
ton  Bland,  and  sometimes  alluded  to  the  fact  with 
bitterness.  When  he  thought  a  man  was  trying  to  get 
ahead  of  him,  Paxton  Bland  never  protested  or  showed 
indignation ;  he  knew  that  this  world  is  far  from  per- 
fect. He  never  threatened.  He  was  one  of  those 
dogs  that  do  not  bark,  but  the  man  who  attempted 
sharp  practice  with  Paxton  Bland  generally  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  bit  considerably. 

His  wife  thought  him  the  sweetest-tempered  man 
in  the  world.  She  found  him  so  gentle  and  easy  to 
manage,  that  she  wondered  at  first  that  in  the  rough 
competition  of  business  he  did  not  get  thrown  down 
and  stepped  on.  Yet,  as  far  as  she  could  judge  by 
results — and  her  husband  did  not  show  her  processes 
— he  was  not  subjected  to  this  humiliating  catastrophe. 
The  results  took  the  form  of  money — heaps  of  money, 
every  year  more  money — money  enough  to  buy 
Sandiloes  as  soon  as  he  found  she  wanted  it.  She 
conjectured  that  possibly  his  way  with  men  was  dif- 
ferent from  his  way  with  women.  That,  in  fact,  was 
the  case. 

149 


150        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Sandiloes  consisted  of  a  house,  out-buildings,  and 
twelve  acres  of  land,  eight  miles  from  a  railway  sta- 
tion in  Oxfordshire.  The  house  was  old,  picturesque, 
and  had  a  semi-ecclesiastical  appearance;  it  photo- 
gfaphed  very  nicely,  and  the  photographs  were  ad- 
mirably reproduced  in  the  catalogue  of  the  London 
house-agents.  It  was  in  their  catalogue  that  Mrs. 
Bland  first  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  the  place.  Then 
she  went  down  and  inspected  it  personally,  and  fell  in 
love  with  it  still  more.  Then  she  talked  to  Paxton 
about  it,  and  Paxton  talked  to  an  architect,  and  fol- 
lowing his  creed  that  you  should  give  a  woman  what 
she  wants  when  you  can,  he  bought  Sandiloes. 

Mrs.  Paxton  Bland  was  not  the  only  person  who  had 
been  struck  by  the  photographs  in  the  catalogue.  A 
white-haired  old  gentleman  in  Hornsey  was  much 
interested  in  them.  He  lived  in  a  small  detached  house, 
and  a  brass  plate  on  the  door  said  that  he  was  Mr. 
Albert  Watt,  trade  designer,  but  did  not  tell  you  what 
a  trade  designer  was.  It  apparently  involved  a  pro- 
found study  of  house  property.  Mr.  Watt  read  many 
catalogues,  giving  the  preference  to  those  that  had 
illustrations  and  plans.  Against  certain  items  he  put 
a  little  mark.  Occasionally  he  travelled  about  the 
country  and  asked  questions  relating  to  house  prop- 
erty; but  he  never  made  any  attempt  to  purchase 
any.  He  seemed  quite  content  with  the  little  house  in 
Hornsey.  There  an  old  housekeeper,  who  did  not  look 
very  pleasant,  attended  to  his  wants;  his  few  visitors 
did  not  look  very  pleasant  either;  they  seemed  to  be 
of  a  lower  class  than  Mr.  Watt.  He  was  neatly  and 
quietly  dressed,  as  befits  an  old  gentleman,  paid  his 
bills  with  the  utmost  regularity,  and  was  ready  with 
a  modest  subscription  to  any  good  and  local  cause. 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      151 

The  more  he  thought  about  Sandiloes  the  more  he 
wanted  to  see  it.  It  was  sold,  as  he  was  aware,  to  Mr. 
Paxton  Bland,  but  that  did  not  matter.  One  morning 
he  set  out  with  a  black  bag  and  left  the  trade  designing 
to  take  care  of  itself  for  one  day. 

But  I  fear  that  he  was  inaccurate  when,  on  calling  at 
Sandiloes  that  afternoon,  before  Mr.  Paxton  Bland 
returned  from  the  City,  he  gave  a  card  which  stated 
that  his  name  was  Champneys,  and  that  he  represented 
the  great  publishing  house  of  Orwell  and  Smith. 

That  night  Mrs.  Bland  asked  her  husband  at  dinner 
if  he  wanted  to  be  in  "Our  English  Homes,"  published 
by  Messrs.  Orwell  and  Smith.  He  answered  that  it 
had  been  the  dream  of  his  life,  but  that  so  far  he  had 
hidden  it  from  her;  he  did  not  speak  with  any  exces- 
sive seriousness. 

"Well,"  she  said,  smiling — and  she  had  a  very  pretty 
smile — "it's  going  to  be.  Their  man,  or  traveller,  or 
whatever  it's  called,  came  here  to-day  to  get  permis- 
sion to  send  an  artist  down  to  make  sketches  of  the 
place.  Richards  showed  him  round,  so  that  he  could 
choose  the  best  points  for  the  pictures." 

"Did  he  collect  a  subscription  for  a  copy  of  the 
book  when  it  is  finished  ?" 

"No,  but  I  sent  a  message  to  him  through  Richards, 
and  he  said  that  particulars  would  be  sent  us." 

"And  did  he  borrow  money  or  merely  take  an 
umbrella  out  of  the  hall?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!  Oh,  you're  quite  wrong 
there — you  are,  indeed,  Paxton!  I  saw  him  through 
the  window,  and  he  looked  a  most  respectable  old 
gentleman,  with  a  most  respectable  black  bag." 

"I've  a  mean  mind;  but  I'm  glad  it's  all  right." 

In  reality,  he  was  far  from  thinking  it  all  right. 


152         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

He  would  have  been  much  better  satisfied  if  the  old 
gentleman  had  collected  a  subscription  or  purloined  an 
overcoat.  That  would  have  been  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion of  his  exceedingly  improbable  story.  Messrs. 
Orwell  and  Smith  were  not  in  the  habit  of  publishing 
that  class  of  book  at  all.  If  they  had  been  publishing 
it  they  would  have  written  for  permission — there  was 
no  need  to  send  a  man  down.  Their  man,  if  he  had 
been  sent,  would  have  had  a  prospectus  of  the  book 
that  he  could  have  shown.  Also,  their  traveller  would 
not  select  the  subjects  for  the  artist.  Finally,  Mr. 
Bland  did  not  believe  that  Sandiloes  was  of  sufficient 
importance  to  be  included  in  any  such  collection.  One 
does  not  tell  an  elaborate  story  having  no  foundation 
in  fact  without  some  purpose.  If  the  old  gentleman 
had  merely  borrowed  half  a  crown,  there  would  have 
been  the  purpose;  as  it  was,  Mr.  Bland  feared  the 
purpose  was  more  serious,  perhaps. 

On  the  following  night,  Mr.  Watt  had  a  visitor  at 
his  little  house  in  Hornsey.  The  visitor  was  not  a 
young  man  of  attractive  appearance.  He  looked  both 
flashy  and  furtive;  his  hair  was  very  short  and  had 
been  still  shorter;  his  clothes  were  somewhat  aggres- 
sive. He  smoked  a  cigarette  in  a  meerschaum  holder 
and  wore  an  elaborate  buttonhole.  His  painfully  dirty 
shirt  was  decorated  by  a  stud  with  a  colored  stone  in 
it.  When  he  reached  Mr.  Watt's  house  he  rapped  very 
gently.  His  assurance  returned  when  the  old  house- 
keeper opened  the  door  to  him.  She  seemed  to  know 
him,  and  asked  him  what  he  was  doing  out  so  late  at 
night  without  his  mother.  To  this  the  young  man  re- 
plied that  he  thought  he  was  old  enough  to  blow  his 
nose  for  himself,  that  she  grew  younger  every  day, 
and  that  if  he  hadn't  come  on  business  he  would  have 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      153 

taken  her  to  the  Savoy  Hotel  and  stood  her  a  penny- 
worth of  whelks.  With  such  graceful  and  refined 
badinage  did  the  visitors  to  Mr.  Watt  replace  the 
tiresome  formality  of  more  ordinary  establishments. 
The  housekeeper  jerked  her  thumb  towards  a  door,  and 
said,  "He's  in  there."  Then  she  retired,  and  the  vis- 
itor, after  tapping  at  the  door — Mr.  Watt  was  partic- 
ular about  this — entered. 

Mr.  Watt  had  requested  this  visitor  to  call,  and  yet 
he  did  not  look  pleased  or  obliged  when  he  saw  him. 

"Now,  what  am  I  to  say  to  you?"  Mr.  Watt  asked 
reflectively. 

"Well,  grandfawther,"  said  the  young  man,  "you 
ought  to  know.  You  sent  for  me.  I  was  'oping  that 
you'd  come  on  something  that" — he  hunted  his  mind 
for  an  euphemism — "had  taken  your  fancy." 

"I  make  mistakes,"  said  Mr.  Watt  sadly.  "I  put 
lovely  business  in  the  way  of  people,  and  then  I'm  not 
remembered  as  I  should  be.  Do  you  suppose  Cock- 
eye's straight  with  me?  Do  you  suppose  he  brings  me 
all  the  stuff?" 

"Tells  me  'e  do." 

"That  I  can  believe,"  said  the  old  gentleman  se- 
verely; "Cockeye  is  not  likely  to  tell  you  anything  he 
doesn't  want  passed  on  to  me.  He  says  he  does ;  well, 
I  tell  you  he  doesn't.  Got  anything  to  say  to  that?" 

"It  seems  queer." 

"It'll  seem  queerer  to  Cockeye  before  I've  finished 
with  him.  Cockeye  ?  Why,  I  made  Cockeye — actually 
made  him!  He  was  sneaking  milk-cans  when  I  took 
him  up.  That's  all  right;  now  we'll  see  how  he  gets 
on  without  me.  I've  a  little  thing  now  that  he  might 
have  had.  I've  been  working  it  up  for  some  time.  It's 
quite  a  little  thing,  but  it's  no  sort  of  trouble  or  risk. 


154        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

I  could  do  it  myself  if  it  didn't  suit  me  better  to  do 
the  putting  up.  It's  hardly  more  than  going  and 
fetching;  I  could  almost  get  a  retriever  to  do  it.  But 
if  Cockeye  had  gone  and  had  fetched,  and  handed  all 
over  to  me  fair  and  square,  it  would  have  been  two 
hundred  and  fifty  golden  sovereigns  in  his  pocket  that 
very  night.  Think  of  that — two  hundred  and  fifty 
golden  sovereigns.  Now  he  can  whistle  for  them." 

"Looks  as  if  it  might  fit  me,  grandfawther,"  said 
the  youth. 

"Ah !"  the  old  man  said  reflectively,  "you're  so  par- 
ticular about  anything  you're  asked  to  take  up,  James." 

"Don't  put  it  that  way,"  said  James.  "I  were  bit  in 
three  places,  I  were  shot  in  the  leg,  I  damn  near  broke 
my  neck,  and  pore  Snitcher  what  were  with  me  is 
doin'  of  his  tray  for  it  now.  All  I  told  you  was  that 
it  were  a  bit  rough  and  tumble;  and  that  were  in  the 
'eat  of  the  momint  as  yer  might  say.  I  wasn't  grum- 
blin'  exactly." 

"You're  young  to  be  put  on  a  thing  like  this  all 
alone.  It's  not  like  having  Snitcher  by  you  to  show 
you  the  ropes.  I  never  put  you  on  alone  before." 

"Ev'rythink  must  'ave  a  beginnin',"  said  James 
modestly.  "You  said  it  was  a  light  job.  And  o' 
course  I  shouldn't  egspec'  whort  Cockeye  would." 

"That's  a  comfort,"  said  Mr.  Watt,  a  trifle  sarcasti- 
cally. "You  wouldn't  get  it  if  you  did,  but  I'm  glad, 
James,  to  hear  that  you  don't  expect  it." 

"Yer  think  I'd  go  throwin'  it  abart  under  the  nose 
of  the  splits,  grandfawther,  but  you're  wrong.  I 
ain't  thet  sort.  I'm  keerful." 

"I  know  what  you  boys  are,  when  you  get  a  little 
money  in  your  pocket.  A  new  suit,  yellow  boots,  off 
with  your  girl  to  some  swell  place  where  you  both  look 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      155 

like  a  couple  of  fools.  Doing  everything  you  know  to 
make  people  believe  you've  got  money,  and  then  sur- 
prised if  Scotland  Yard  wants  to  know  how  you  got 
it!  That's  you,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  me.  Some's  like  that,  but  not  me ;  I'm  keerf ul ; 
awst  Snitcher  if  I  ain't." 

"I  will  when  he  comes  out.  If  you  want  this  job, 
you  can  have  it.  Bring  me  the  stuff — it  will  all  go  in 
one  pocket — and  you  shall  have  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five,  but  it'll  be  spread  over  six  months,  and  longer  if 
I  find  you  playing  the  fool.  If  you  want  to  spend 
money,  go  away  to  do  it.  See?  Now  then  take  it  or 
leave  it." 

"O  bet  your  life,  I'm  on!" 

"Very  well,  then;  listen."  And  the  old  gentleman 
began  to  give  a  remarkably  accurate  description  of 
Sandiloes,  and  the  habits  of  the  residents  there. 

James  listened  with  the  greatest  attention.  He  noted 
every  point  and  made  Mr.  Watt  repeat  anything  that 
he  failed  to  grasp  the  first  time.  But  Mr.  Watt  was 
very  lucid,  and  had  several  little  diagrams  ready  to 
make  things  clearer. 

"Sounds  good,"  said  James.  "Soft  thing,  too.  But 
why  didn't  yer  pizun  the  dog,  grandf awther  ?" 

"For  the  same  reason  that  I  have  not  put  an  adver- 
tisement in  the  morning  papers  to  say  that  you  are 
coming.  Besides,  you  never  go  near  the  dog,  if  you 
stick  to  your  directions." 

"True,"  said  James  humbly.  "I  worn't  tryin'  ter 
teach  yer  anything,  grandf  awther,  but  I  were  bit  in 
three  places  lawst  time,  and  I  never  keered  about 
dogs." 

"And  remember  it's  a  clockwork  house.  If  you're 
not  dead  on  time,  you'll  be  wrong.  Got  a  watch  ?" 


156        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

James  produced  a  silver  watch  from  his  pocket. 
"Very  nice  watch,  and  keeps  good  time.  Gent  as  had 
it  afore  me  was  reg'lar  sorry  to  part  with  it.  Thet 
were  at  Epsom,  and  a  friend  of  mine  told  me  the  gent 
were  inquirin'  fur  thet  watch  under  the  gran'  stan'  in 
a  most  agitited  wye.  Wished  'e  'adn't  give  it  me, 
arter  all,  I  surpose." 

Mr.  Watt  was  lighting  the  best  cigar  that  was 
smoked  in  Hornsey  that  night.  Business  over,  he  un- 
bent a  little.  He  produced  whisky  and  glasses  from 
the  sideboard.  James  rolled  a  cigarette  with  quick 
dirty  hands,  and  as  he  sipped  his  liquor  made  an  at- 
tempt to  get  a  little  more  information  out  of  Mr.  Watt. 
Nodding  his  head  in  what  he  presumed  to  be  the  di- 
rection of  the  kitchen,  he  asked: 

"Is  she  right  in  it  or  ain't  she?" 

"She  knows,"  said  Mr.  Watt,  "all  that  there  is  any 
occasion  for  her  to  know.  Don't  talk  business  to  her 
nor  to  anyone  else,  as  long  as  it's  my  business." 

"As  if  I  would !  Why,  grandfawther,  I  believe  yer 
tike  me  fur  a  byeby.  I  wouldn't  do  it  nort  for  all  the 
money  yer've  gort;  and  thet's  more  than  I  shall  ever 
get  a  sight  of  in  this  world."  He  spoke  as  if  with  a 
pious  hope  that  this  little  inequality  would  be  redressed 
in  the  hereafter.  If  he  had  any  idea  of  persuading  the 
old  gentleman  to  make  either  a  statement  or  disclaimer 
as  to  what  his  possessions  really  were,  he  was  disap- 
pointed. Mr.  Watt  began  to  talk  about  the  Grand 
National,  and  produced  cogent  arguments  against 
gambling. 

Just  before  he  left,  James  went  fishing  once  more. 
"I've  knowed  you,  grandfawther,"  he  said,  with  an  air 
of  reflective  reminiscence,  "more  nor  a  year  now.  It's 
full  thirteen  months  since  Snitcher  brought  me  along. 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      157 

And  I  don't  know  no  more  abart  yer  nar  nor  whort  I 
did  then.  I  know  your  word  mye  be  took;  I  knows 
yer  puts  up  jobs,  and  passes  along  the  stuff.  But  yer 
don't  speak  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  I've  knowed  many 
flashier  thet  'adn't  got  'arf  as  much  of  the  toff  abart 
'em  as  yer  'ave  yer  self.  Sometimes  of  a  night,  when 
I'm  lyin'  awike,  I  wunners  whort  yer  was  afore  yer 
took  up  with  this  game." 

"I  was  a  Master  of  Arts  and  a  priest  in  Holy 
Orders." 

James  left  in  a  roar  of  laughter.  "Close  as  wax, 
thet's  whort  you  is,"  he  cried.  "Clerk  in  'Oly  Orders ! 
Thet's  a  good  'un,  grand fawther.  Good  night  to  yer. 
I'll  be  rarn'd  dye  arter  ter-morrer,  early."  But,  as  it 
happened,  though  the  circumstances  which  brought  it 
about  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  story,  Mr.  Watt 
(whose  real  name  was  something  else)  had  been  pre- 
cisely what  he  had  told  James,  and  had  thence  passed 
through  more  than  one  stage  before  he  became  a  fence 
and  a  putter-up  of  burglaries. 

It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  Mr.  Paxton 
Eland's  clerks  thought  him  a  man  of  excessive  energy; 
he  certainly  had  enough  energy  to  make  an  inquiry 
from  Richards  as  to  the  representative  of  Messrs. 
Orwell  and  Smith. 

Richards  was  a  good-natured  and  slightly  pompous 
simpleton.  He  said  that,  in  his  opinion,  the  man  from 
Orwell's  was  about  as  ignorant  a  man  as  you  could 
find. 

Mr.  Bland  was  interested,  and  asked  in  what  way 
the  ignorance  was  displayed.  It  appeared  that  this 
wretched  Champneys  had  an  idea  that  he  knew  how  the 
landed  gentry  lived.  His  ideas  on  this  subject  had 
been  grotesque,  and  Richards  had  been  much  amused. 


158        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Why,  sir,  he  thought  it  was  usual  to  dine  at  six,  and 
for  the  lady  of  the  house  to  wear  all  her  diamonds, 
even  when  the  family  was  dining  alone."  Richards 
gave  other  examples  of  the  abysmal  ignorance  dis- 
played by  Champneys  as  to  the  life  of  the  upper 
classes.  It  turned  out  that  the  good-natured  Richards 
had  provided  him  with  enlightenment.  All  this  Bland 
heard  with  a  pleased  smile.  He  had  so  much  energy 
still  left  that  he  rose  at  five  next  morning,  and  went  to 
a  little  workshop  where  he  was  wont  to  amuse  himself, 
and  did  several  things.  The  result  of  what  he  did  was 
that  if  anyone  moved  the  short  ladder  on  the  brackets 
outside  the  wall  of  the  kitchen  yard,  the  hand  of  a  dial 
in  Mr.  Eland's  dressing-room  informed  him  of  the 
fact.  He  took  other  precautions  as  well,  for  although 
he  had  guessed  what  was  to  happen,  he  did  not  know 
the  precise  way  in  which  it  would  happen ;  but  he  was 
inclined  to  think  that  the  attempt  to  get  Mrs.  Eland's 
diamonds  would  be  made  during  the  dinner-hour,  and 
that  the  thief  would  find  the  ladder  useful. 

On  the  following  night  James  carried  out  with  the 
greatest  precision  the  directions  that  he  had  received 
from  Mr.  Watt.  He  kept  clear  of  the  stables  where 
the  dog  was,  and  he  avoided  with  equal  care  the  lodge 
at  the  entrance  to  the  drive.  For  the  last  three  miles 
he  had  come  across  country,  a  lonely  country  and  well- 
wooded,  just  the  kind  of  country  that  James  liked. 
There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  were  rather  brighter 
than  James  thought  necessary;  but  like  a  philosopher 
he  tolerated  what  he  was  unable  to  alter.  He  had 
committed  the  plans  provided  by  Mr.  Watt  to  memory, 
and  had  no  difficulty  about  finding  his  way. 

His  procedure  was  to  be  according  to  ordinary  form. 
That  is  to  say,  he  was  to  secure  the  three  doors  of  the 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      159 

house  so  that  they  could  not  be  opened  from  inside,  or, 
at  any  rate,  not  without  difficulty  and  delay;  he  was 
to  wire  the  paths  so  that  a  pursuer  would  trip  and  fall ; 
at  eight  precisely  he  was  to  enter  the  window  of  Mrs. 
Eland's  room  by  the  help  of  a  ladder  that  he  would  find 
on  brackets  fixed  to  the  wall  of  the  kitchen  yard;  he 
was  then  to  lock  the  door  of  the  room,  open  the  jewel 
box  with  a  wire,  slip  the  diamonds  in  his  pocket  with- 
out their  cases,  descend  by  the  ladder  again,  and  take 
his  departure. 

By  a  quarter  to  eight  he  had  fixed  his  wires,  and  only 
had  to  put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  fastening  of  the 
doors;  he  did  not  intend  actually  to  fasten  them  until 
he  was  quite  ready  to  begin.  Then  he  fetched  the 
ladder  and  brought  it  round  to  the  side  of  the  house 
where  it  would  be  required. 

Mr.  Paxton  Bland  saw  the  hand  on  the  dial  move,  as 
he  was  dressing  for  dinner.  Within  a  minute  he  had 
slipped  on  an  ulster  that  he  had  ready,  dashed  down- 
stairs, and  let  himself  out  of  the  front  door.  He  took 
two  skips  into  the  shrubbery  near,  and  there  hid  him- 
self and  waited.  In  another  minute  he  could  just  dis- 
tinguish the  under-sized  James  as  he  came  softly  up  to 
the  front  door,  and  put  in  that  finishing  touch.  Then 
James  went  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  house,  to 
the  lawn  under  Mrs.  Eland's  windows. 

Paxton  Bland  listened.  He  could  hear  the  piano  in 
the  drawing-room ;  his  wife  was  playing  as  she  waited 
for  him  to  come  down  to  dinner.  Eight  o'clock  struck 
from  the  stables,  and  immediately  the  music  ceased. 
Then  he  was  just  able  to  hear  a  faint  sound  on  the 
gravel  on  the  other  side  of  the  house;  the  ladder  was 
just  being  put  into  position.  He  drew  a  cap  from  his 
ulster  pocket  and  put  it  on,  changed  the  revolver  from 


160        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

the  left  pocket  to  the  right,  and  slipped  the  life-pre- 
server up  his  sleeve.  Then  Mr.  Paxton  Bland  thought 
he  would  like  to  get  round  to  the  other  side  of  the 
house  also.  He  went  circuitously,  availing  himself  of 
a  belt  of  shrubs.  From  his  second  position  he  could 
hear  the  window  being  pushed  up  a  little,  and  recog- 
nized the  cleverness  that  opened  it  so  nearly  without  a 
sound.  Then  he  saw  a  light  moving  about  inside  the 
room.  What  struck  him  most  was  the  stupendous  im- 
pudence of  the  thing — impudence  that  ninety-nine 
times  out  of  a  hundred  might  be  perfectly  successful. 

There  was  now  a  clear  course  before  an  ordinary 
commonplace,  law-abiding  citizen.  Unquestionably 
Mr.  Paxton  Bland  should  have  removed  the  ladder, 
whistled  the  dog,  sent  a  gardener  for  the  police,  and 
caught  the  burglar  in  a  trap.  But  I  doubt  if  Mr. 
Paxton  Bland  was  all  these  estimable  things.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  his  clerks  said  he  was  a  devil.  I 
must  myself  admit  he  had  his  own  way  of  doing 
things. 

For  the  present  he  stood  still  and  waited.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  James  descended  the  ladder  again. 
What  happened  next  may  be  given  from  James's  point 
of  view. 

Everything  had  gone  without  a  hitch  so  far ;  James 
said  to  himself  that  if  there  was  another  man  in  Eng- 
land who  could  put  up  a  job  like  grandfather,  he 
should  like  to  meet  that  man.  James  had  two  dia- 
mond rings,  a  diamond  necklace,  a  pearl  necklace,  a 
diamond  pendant,  and  a  diamond  tiara  in  his  pocket, 
and  though  he  was  only  going  to  get  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  pounds  for  the  lot  he  felt  pleased.  He 
continued  to  feel  pleased  until  he  mounted  the  boun- 
dary fence,  and  then  he  no  longer  felt  pleased ;  on  the 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      161 

contrary,  he  felt  a  violent  blow  on  the  side  of  the  head, 
and  as  he  was  on  the  top  of  the  fence  at  the  time  he 
fell  heavily  and  promiscuously.  Before  he  could  rise 
he  felt  something  else  unpleasant,  and  this  was  a  cir- 
cular rim  of  cold  steel  pressed  against  his  temple. 

"Lie  just  as  you  are,"  said  a  deep  voice.  "Move  a 
finger  or  speak  a  word,  and  you  are  dead." 

James  had  a  revolver  himself  in  his  pocket,  but  con- 
sidering that  that  steel  rim  was  where  it  was,  he 
thought  that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  move,  and  he 
had  no  desire  for  conversation.  He  felt  a  hand  in  the 
pocket  where  he  had  put  his  swag;  likewise  in  the 
pocket  where  he  kept  his  revolver.  "Stand  up,"  said 
the  same  deep  voice. 

James  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  stand  up ;  he 
stood,  and  saw  that  his  assailant  was  a  man  too  big 
to  fight,  even  if  he  had  not  been  armed,  a  tall  man  in 
an  ulster  and  cap. 

"Six  articles  in  all,"  said  the  man.  "Is  that  all  you 
got?" 

"Yuss,"  said  James.     "That  was  all  I  wanted." 

"I  have  your  revolver,  and  now  I  want  your  watch." 

"It's  a  ole  silver  watch;  it  ain't  wuth  nutthink;  yer 
don't " 

Here  James  was  knocked  down  again,  and  once 
more  told  to  stand  up.  He  began  to  whimper  and 
handed  over  the  watch. 

"Any  money?" 

James  produced  thirteen-and-threepence. 

"That  all?" 

"Yuss,  and  goodness  knows  how  I'm  goin'  ter  git 
'ome." 

"You'll  walk,  I  suppose.  Take  that  stud  out  of  your 
shirt  and  give  it  here." 


162        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"The  stone  ain't  real,"  said  James,  but  he  handed  it 
over. 

"Anything  else?" 

"Knife  and  a  bit  o'  wire,"  said  James,  producing 
them. 

Further  inquiry  brought  forth  a  little  tobacco  in  a 
paper,  a  medicine  bottle  with  gin  in  it,  some  matches 
and  a  candle-end,  and  a  piece  of  string.  After  that 
James  maintained  that  bar  his  clothes  he  was  skinned. 
"Very  well,"  said  the  man  in  the  ulster.  "Now  I'll 
go  over  you  myself,  and  if  you've  spoken  the  truth,  I'll 
give  you  back  threepence  to  help  you  on  your  way 
home.  If  you  haven't,  you're  going  to  die." 

The  search,  as  might  have  been  guessed  from  the 
readiness  with  which  James  submitted  to  it,  yielded  no 
more  treasures.  The  man  handed  him  three  pennies, 
told  him  to  be  off,  and  watched  him  out  of  sight. 

James  did  not  call  on  Mr.  Watt  next  morning  early ; 
he  arrived  late  in  the  evening,  limping  and  exhausted. 
The  unattractive  housekeeper  who  admitted  him  said 
that  he  looked  like  as  if  he  had  been  left  over  from  a 
beanfeast.  But  James  had  no  heart  for  badinage.  To 
Mr.  Watt  he  told  the  whole  of  his  story. 

"And  it  does  seem  a  bit  'awd,"  he  said,  in  conclu- 
sion; "when  yer  done  yer  best  an'  took  pines,  an'  got 
it  all  in  yer  pocket,  ter  'ave  it  stole  from  yer.  Stole — 
thet's  whort  it  was ;  theer's  no  other  nime  fur  it.  The 
dirty  dog,  I  'ope  'e'll  swing  one  o'  these  days !" 

"It's  no  use  talking  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Watt. 
"You've  not  got  the  stuff,  and  therefore  you  won't 
have  the  money.  He  marked  your  face  slightly,  I 
see." 

"There's  nutthing  'e  didn't  do.    Watch  gone.    Cash 


A  DEVIL,  A  BOY,  A  DESIGNER      163 

gone.    Ev'rything  gone.    If  I'd  bin  anywheer  near  'is 
size  I'd  'ave  made  a  fight  of  it,  an'  chanced  'is  iron." 
"You  want  a  drink,  don't  you?" 
"Thank  yer,  and  that's  a  pore  word  fur  it." 

But  no  amount  of  whisky — and  he  took  a  good  deal 
— could  reconcile  James  to  the  hardness  of  his  lot.  He 
renewed  his  complaints. 

"Look  here,  James,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "You 
seem  to  forget  that  I'm  losing  a  week's  work,  and  a  lot 
of  diamonds  just  when  I  can  place  all  I  can  get,  and  all 
through  your  carelessness.  You  don't  seem  to  be  able 
to  take  care  of  yourself.  Now  I  suppose  you'll  come 
bleating  to  me  wanting  to  be  put  on  to  something 
else." 

"It  worn't  my  fault,  grandfawther.  'Ow  was  I  ter 
know  thet  thievin'  swine  was  waitin'  theer  an'  watchin' 
of  me  ?  Der  yer  know  'ow  I  feel  abart  this  ?" 

"Go  on." 

"I  feel  thet  if  anyone  wud  give  me  a  thick  'un  ter 
mike  a  stawt  with,  I'd  swear  never  ter  tike  another 
penny  that  didn't  belong  ter  me.  I've  'ad  a  sickener." 

"Don't  say  things  you  don't  mean,  James."  ' 

"Bible  oath,  I  mean  it,  and  'ud  stick  ter  it,  too!  I 
knows  more  nor  one  way  ter  pick  up  a  living  honist." 

Mr.  Watt  walked  up  and  down  the  room  twice,  paus- 
ing to  take  a  sip  from  his  glass  each  time.  Then  he  sat 
down,  pulled  a  leather  bag  from  his  pocket,  extracted 
a  sovereign,  and  tossed  it  across  to  James. 

"A  sovereign,  I  think  you  said.  Take  it  and  go. 
And  keep  your  word.  Don't  come  here  again.  Good 
night." 

"Hi  sye,  grandfawther!"  James  began.  But  Mr. 
Watt  broke  in  again : 


164        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Damn  you!  Go  before  I  change  my  mind.  It's 
your  chance ;  take  it  and  stick  to  it.  Go !" 

And  James,  feeling  sure  now  that  this  life  is  full  of 
surprises,  went.  And — which  is  much  more  extraordi- 
nary— he  did  keep  his  word.  He  is  at  present  doing 
very  well  in  the  grocery  line,  has  his  own  shop,  and  if 
you  suggested  to  him  that  there  was  a  time  when  he 
preferred  stealing,  I  think  he  would  be  much  hurt. 

And  Mr.  Paxton  Bland  wears  a  silver  watch  and  a 
complacent  expression. 


XV 

THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE 

IT  was  like  this.  I  mostly  took  Jimmy  Stalside  with 
me  when  I  went  egging.  He's  only  a  small  kid, 
two  forms  lower  than  I  am ;  but  he's  handy,  and  does 
what  he's  told.  We'd  gone  a  partnership  in  eggs. 
But  this  time  I  hadn't  taken  him  with  me,  because 
I  hadn't  meant  egging.  I  didn't  mean  to  do  anything 
when  I  went  out.  However,  I  was  in  the  small  planta- 
tion on  Linthwaite  Fell,  and  I  saw  a  corby  go  off  a  nest 
top  of  a  young  tree.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  wind  on,  and 
the  tree  was  blowing  about.  I  felt  rather  mad.  I'd 
got  four  corby's  eggs  already,  but  I  really  wanted 
more;  corbies  aren't  so  common,  and  a  few  extra  are 
useful  for  swaps.  Yet  it  was  such  a  thin,  young  tree 
that  I  knew  it  would  snap  if  I  went  up,  especially  with 
that  wind  blowing.  I  stared  at  it  a  long  time.  Then 
I  told  myself  that,  being  a  young  tree,  it  was  prob- 
ably tough,  and  would  bend  down  slowly  with  my 
weight  but  not  break.  If  I  had  only  had  Jimmy  Stal- 
side with  me,  it  would  have  been  all  right;  the  tree 
would  have  carried  a  little  chap  like  him  well  enough. 
However,  I  knew  if  I  left  that  nest  some  dirty  sneak 
would  prig  it  while  I  was  away.  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  chance  it.  I  was  about  three-quarters  of  the  way 
up  when  the  thing  broke.  The  ground  was  soft,  and  I 
got  a  good  mouthful  of  it  and  made  my  nose  bleed. 

165 


166        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

I  got  up  slowly  and  felt  myself  over.  I  wasn't  much 
hurt  anywhere,  but  my  ankle  had  a  bit  of  a  twist.  I 
put  my  handkerchief  to  my  nose  to  stop  it  bleeding, 
and  limped  a  step  or  two  to  get  at  the  nest  which  had 
come  down  with  the  tree.  There  was  nothing  in  it. 
If  there  had  been  it  would  only  have  been  smashed; 
but  it  helped  to  make  me  madder  than  ever.  I  said 
out  loud : 

"All  right,  Jimmy  Stalside,  I'll  make  you  sit  up  for 
this."  You  see,  if  Jimmy  had  been  there  I  should 
have  sent  him  up  the  tree;  so  naturally  I  felt  savage 
with  him. 

I  had  hardly  said  these  words  before  I  heard  a  laugh. 
I  turned  round  and  saw  a  lanky  kind  of  a  girl  standing 
close  by,  in  the  dark  of  the  trees.  She  seemed  to  be 
a  girl  about  my  own  age,  and  she  wasn't  ugly.  She'd 
got  a  basket  with  her,  but  she  put  it  down  on  the 
ground.  I  daresay  she'd  been  watching  me  ever  since  I 
started  climbing.  She  looked  a  bit  ashamed  of  herself 
when  she  saw  I'd  caught  her. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "and  what  are  you  grinning  at?" 

She  put  one  finger  in  her  mouth  and  sucked  it  a 
moment.  I  expect  she  was  thinking  if  she  wouldn't 
pick  up  her  basket  and  run  off  without  answering.  But 
she  didn't.  She  said : 

"Because  of  your  talking  to  yourself  like  that.  You 
are  queer." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  I  said.  "You  were  grinning  because 
I  came  such  a  smeller  just  now,  and  if  you  were  any- 
thing except  a  girl  I'd  settle  with  you  for  that." 

"Oh,  but  I  wasn't!  I  was  frightened.  I  nearly 
screamed.  Did  you  hurt  yourself  much?" 

"Twisted  my  ankle  a  bit,  made  my  nose  bleed,  and 
swallowed  a  peck  of  dust  and  beetles  and  stuff." 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE     167 

"Why  did  you  go  up  that  tree?" 

"Partly  because  there  was  a  corby's  nest  at  the  top, 
and  partly  because  I  was  ass  enough  to  think  the  tree 
would  carry  me.  I  knew  all  the  time  it  wouldn't 
really." 

"You'll  get  punished  if  you  smash  up  the  young 
trees  here." 

"Got  to  cop  me  first."  She  came  a  step  forward 
now  and  stood  in  the  sun.  She'd  got  good  long  hair. 
I'd  just  as  soon  have  that  as  not,  in  a  girl. 

"I've  got  three  corby's  eggs,"  she  said. 

"Get  them  yourself  ?" 

"No ;  my  cousin  got  them  for  me." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"Bill— Bill  Helcomb.    I'm  Marion  Helcomb." 

"Did  you  blow  the  eggs  yourself?" 

"Yes,  I  did."  She  seemed  regularly  triumphant 
about  that. 

"Hole  at  each  end — threaded  'em  on  a  bit  of  cot- 
ton?" 

"Yes." 

"Thought  so.  Look  here,  next  time  you  get  any 
eggs,  make  one  hole,  and  make  it  in  the  middle.  Then 
blow  out  the  insides  with  a  blow-pipe.  You  can  ask 
your  cousin  what  a  blow-pipe  is  and  how  to  do  it — not 
that  I  expect  he  knows."  She  seemed  interested  in 
what  I  was  saying. 

"And  then?" 

"Then  mount  it  with  the  hole  downwards,  so  that 
ho  hole  shows  at  all.  And  mount  it  with  both  names 
to  it.  You  want  eggs  to  look  like  eggs.  You  don't 
want  to  make  them  into  a  blooming  necklace.  And 
you  don't  want  them  stuck  all  over  holes  like  a  bit  of 
stamp-paper." 


168        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"I  see,"  she  said.  She  looked  rather  sorrowful. 
"If  mine  had  been  done  right  I  would  have  given  them 
to  you,  instead  of  those  you  missed  just  now." 

It's  awkward  when  you  think  anyone's  going  to  be 
nasty  to  you  and  you  get  a  bit  nasty  to  him,  and  then 
you  find  out  that  he  really  meant  to  be  rather  decent 
than  not.  This  was  what  it  was  with  that  girl.  The 
hair  on  her  eyelids  was  longish,  too,  though  I  don't 
know  that  that  matters.  I  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 
I  thanked  her  very  much.  I  told  her  that,  anyhow,  she 
was  a  long  way  ahead  of  most  girls,  because  most 
girls  haven't  the  pluck  to  collect  eggs  at  all. 

She  looked  at  me  seriously,  and  said  that  I  ought  to 
do  something  to  stop  my  nose  bleeding. 

"I'll  have  to  let  it  rip,"  I  said.  "If  I  had  something 
cold  to  put  down  my  back,  that  does  it." 

"I've  got  it,"  she  said,  looking  as  pleased  as  if  she'd 
found  a  halfpenny  book.  "I've  just  been  up  to  the  hen- 
house to  get  the  eggs,  and  I've  the  big  key  here."  She 
stooped  down  to  her  basket  and  picked  it  up. 

"Do"  you  carry  that  key  on  the  top  of  the  eggs?"  I 
said. 

"Yes." 

"It's  a  wonder  it  hasn't  smashed  some  of  them." 

"Well,  it  hasn't." 

"It  will,  if  you  aren't  careful.  Another  time  put 
that  heavy  key  at  the  bottom  of  the  basket  and  the 
eggs  on  the  top." 

"I  will,"  she  said.  Anyone  would  have  thought  that 
I  was  a  master,  and  she  was  bound  to  obey  me.  I  was 
surprised  that  she  didn't  argue  more. 

I  slid  that  key  down  my  back.  It  was  as  cold  as  a 
penny  ice.  After  a  few  minutes  it  did  stop  the  bleed- 
ing, and  while  we  were  waiting  for  it  to  do  that  I 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE     169 

talked  to  the  girl.  I  asked  her  questions  and  gave  her 
some  advice,  because  she  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  girl 
that  one  might  make  something  of. 

She  told  me  that  she  was  just  on  a  visit  to  her  uncle, 
and  would  only  be  there  another  fortnight.  I  had 
seen  her  uncle.  He  was  a  rough,  common  sort  of  a 
man  to  have  been  related  to  her.  The  way  I  saw  her 
uncle  was  this:  Reggie  Winter  and  I  always  cele- 
brated the  end  of  term  by  smoking  cigarettes.  Once 
we  took  our  cigarettes  and  smoked  them  on  a  stack 
belonging  to  old  Helcomb,  and  he  came  and  caught  us. 
He  was  properly  savage,  too,  and  said  he'd  report  us. 
But  he  didn't.  That  was  all  I  knew  about  him.  I 
asked  her  what  church  she  went  to,  and  she  told  me 
she  generally  went  to  Linthwaite  Church.  I  advised 
her  to  come  to  Manners  Church  next  Sunday;  it  was 
no  farther  to  walk  than  Linthwaite  Church  was,  and 
the  school  went  to  Manners  Church.  She  said  she 
would  come,  and  I  told  her  where  she'd  better  sit.  She 
said  that  she  went  to  the  hen-house  on  the  fell  side 
every  afternoon.  One  of  the  eggs  in  the  basket  came 
from  her  own  particular  hen,  and  she  had  marked  it 
with  a  cross  in  pencil,  so  as  to  know  it  from  the  rest. 
She  gave  me  that  egg.  If  I  had  had  anything  about 
me  that  I  could  have  given  her  as  a  return,  I  don't 
know  that  I  shouldn't  have  done  it.  But  I  hadn't  any- 
thing. By  this  time  my  nose  had  stopped  bleeding,  and 
I  wanted  to  give  her  the  key  back.  But  I  didn't  see 
how  to  do  it ;  no  more  did  she. 

I  tried  stooping  down  so  that  it  might  come  out 
where  it  went  in,  but  it  wouldn't  stir.  Then  I  tried 
jumping  up  and  down  to  get  it  out  the  other  way, 
but  that  wouldn't  move  it  either.  It  was  a  big,  old 
key,  and  somehow  or  other  it  had  stuck  fast.  I  thought 


170        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

that  the  only  thing  to  do  would  be  to  strip  and  get 
the  key  out  that  way.  I  was  just  going  to  tell  the  girl 
to  go  up  to  the  other  end  of  the  plantation  and  wait 
for  me  there,  when  my  watch  jerked  out  of  my  pocket. 

"Twelve  minutes  to  four.  Call-over's  at  four,  and  if 
I  stop  another  minute  I  miss  it.  And  if  I  miss  it  I'm 
done." 

"Then  run,  at  once,"  said  the  girl.  "Only  you've 
got  my  key  in  your — in  your  back,  you  know." 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  "to-morro.w  isn't  a  half,  and 
so  I  can't  be  here  then.  But  I'll  come  up  between 
twelve  and  one,  and  put  the  key  under  the  top  stone  of 
the  wall  on  the  left  of  the  top  gate  of  the  plantation. 
You'll  find  it  there  when  you  want  it." 

"That  will  do  splendidly.  Under  the  top  stone  left 
of  the  top  gate.  I  won't  forget.  You're  sure  it  won't 
slip  out  while  you're  running?  No?  That's  all  right. 
Good-bye." 

I  only  just  got  in  time  for  call-over,  and  I  fancy  I 
made  my  ankle  much  worse  by  the  hurry.  I  didn't 
quite  see,  at  first,  what  to  do  with  that  egg.  If  I  had 
been  in  the  sixth  I  should  have  had  a  study  to  myself, 
and  then  I  could  have  boiled  it  over  the  gas.  But  I 
wasn't  in  the  sixth,  and  so  I  hadn't  a  chance.  How- 
ever, I  had  a  good  idea.  It  was  my  bath  night.  The 
bath  seemed  very  near  boiling  hot;  it  was  too  hot  to 
get  into  at  first,  anyhow.  So  I  put  the  egg  in,  and  sat 
on  the  edge  and  waited  till  the  water  was  cooler. 
After  about  twenty  minutes  I  tried  the  egg.  It  wasn't 
exactly  cooked,  and  it  wasn't  exactly  raw.  I've  eaten 
many  worse  things.  Next  morning  my  ankle  was  just 
about  as  bad  as  it  could  be.  I  could  hardly  bear  to  put 
my  foot  on  the  ground.  However,  my  notion  was  that 
I  would  go  to  morning  school,  hop  up  to  the  plantation, 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE     171 

somehow  or  other,  between  twelve  and  one,  and  put  the 
key  in  its  place,  and  then  go  up  to  the  sick-room.  As 
it  happened  I  didn't  do  that.  A  house-master  caught 
me  limping  about  after  breakfast  and  sent  me  up  to 
the  sick-room  there  and  then.  They  bandaged  my 
ankle,  put  me  upon  a  couch,  and  wouldn't  let  me  stir. 

Then  I  thought  I  really  was  done.  I  didn't  see  how 
I  was  to  get  that  key  back  to  the  place  we'd  agreed  on 
before  the  afternoon.  And  I  knew  that  if  I  did  not 
get  it  back  that  girl  would  be  in  for  no  end  of  a  row. 
Lying  there  on  my  back,  I  thought  of  a  plan.  I  knew 
Reggie  Winter  would  be  likely  to  come  up  after  school 
to  see  what  was  the  matter  with  me,  and  so  he  did. 
He  asked  me  how  I'd  damaged  my  foot. 

"Doing  a  champion  performance,"  I  said.  "I  ran 
from  here  to  the  gate  in  that  small  plantation  in  Linth- 
waite  Fell  and  back  again  in  thirty  minutes."  Of 
course,  I  knew  that  I  could  do  it  in  twenty-four,  but  I 
said  thirty  because  I  wanted  to  make  Reggie  Winter 
say  he  could  do  better.  And  so  he  did. 

"That's  a  fat  champion  performance,"  he  said. 
"Thirty  minutes !  I'd  do  it  in  twenty  any  day." 

"You  always  did  think  a  lot  of  your  running.  Go 
and  do  it  then.  Do  it  now  if  you're  so  sure  of  your- 
self, and  I'll  lay  you  a  bob  you  don't  do  it  in  twenty." 

"Done  with  you,"  he  said.  I  gave  him  the  hen-house 
key  and  told  him  to  put  it  under  the  top  stone  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  gate,  so  that  I  should  know  he'd 
really  been  there.  I  said  it  was  just  an  old  key  that  I'd 
picked  up.  Then  I  timed  him  by  my  watch,  and  off 
he  went  as  hard  as  he  could  go. 

When  he'd  gone  I  lay  back  and  chuckled.  I  thought 
to  myself  that  I'd  made  Reggie  Winter  do  my  business 
for  me,  without  even  knowing  that  he  was  doing  it, 


172         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

and  that  I  should  make  a  bob  out  of  it  as  well.  Then  I 
stopped  chuckling,  because  I  remembered  that  I  hadn't 
told  him  the  top  gate,  so  he'd  be  certain  to  go  to  the 
gate  at  the  other  end  of  the  plantation,  which  was  one 
minute  nearer. 

It  was  as  bad  as  having  a  tooth  out  to  lie  there 
without  being  able  to  move,  and  think  about  it.  It's 
bad  enough  to  find  out  that  you've  been  an  idiot  at 
any  time,  but  it's  worse  to  find  out  that  you've  been  an 
idiot  just  when  you  considered  that  you  were  being 
particularly  smart.  Then  there  was  the  girl;  she'd 
been  very  friendly,  giving  me  an  egg  from  her  own 
particular  hen,  and  so  on;  besides,  she  couldn't  have 
been  called  bad-looking.  It  wasn't  so  pleasant  to  think 
what  a  row  she  would  get  into  with  her  uncle,  or  what 
she  would  think  of  me  for  not  keeping  my  word,  and 
for  losing  the  key  of  the  hen-house  for  her.  I  won- 
dered whether  she  would  tell  her  uncle  about  having 
lent  the  key  to  me  to  put  down  my  back;  at  least,  I 
didn't  wonder  much,  for  I  thought  it  about  as  sure  as 
death  that  she  wouldn't. 

Presently  back  came  Reggie  Winter,  blbwing  and 
panting  so  that  he  could  hardly  speak.  He'd  taken 
two  minutes  thirty-five  seconds  more  than  the  time 
he'd  betted  he'd  do  it  in.  He  chucked  me  the  shilling, 
and  said  that  he  could  have  done  it  in  twenty  if  he  had 
been  in  running  things. 

"No,  you  couldn't,  my  son,"  I  said.  "I  doubt  if 
you've  been  there  and  back  now,  in  twenty-two  thirty- 
five." 

"Well,  I'll  take  my  oath  I  have.  Besides,  I've  put 
the  key  where  you  told  me,  against  the  gate;  so  you 
can  see  for  yourself,  as  soon  as  you  stop  shamming  it 
here." 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE     173 

"Plucky  lot  of  shamming  there  is  about  me,  with  an 
ankle  swollen  up  the  size  of  a  house!  Which  gate  did 
you  go  to?" 

"Nearest,  of  course.  There'd  have  been  no  sense  in 
going  on,  sweating  up  to  the  top  gate." 

Wouldn't  there  just ! 

I  almost  wished  I'd  told  Reggie  Winter  all  about  the 
whole  thing.  I  believe  he'd  have  taken  the  key  up  to 
the  top  gate  for  me.  But  then  I  should  have  had  to 
give  the  girl  away;  and  I  should  have  had  to  give 
myself  away  into  the  bargain.  A  nice  sort  of  story 
Reggie  Winter  would  have  put  all  over  the  place.  It's 
just  as  well  I  didn't  let  him  into  the  secret.  In  des- 
peration I  now  thought  of  Jimmy  Stalside.  I'd  a 
sort  of  authority  over  Jimmy.  I  could  make  him  do  a 
thing  without  telling  him  the  reason  for  it,  and  that 
wasn't  possible  with  Reggie  \Vinter.  So  I  said: 

"Look  here,  Reggie,  if  you're  going  down  you  might 
send  Jimmy  Stalside  up  to  me." 

Presently  up  came  Jimmy.  "Hullo,"  said  Jimmy, 
"you've  cooked  your  ankle  jolly  well.  How  did  you 
do  that?  And  what  do  you  want?" 

"Look  here,  Jimmy,"  I  said,  "would  you  chance 
cutting  dinner  to-day  ?" 

"Well,  I'd  sooner  cut  evening  prep,  or  something  of 
that  kind.  One  gets  a  bit  pecky  about  this  time  of  day. 
As  far  as  chancing  it  goes,  I  don't  mind  that;  tell  the 
two  chaps  who  generally  sit  each  side  of  you  to  close 
up  a  bit  so  as  not  to  leave  a  vacant  place,  and  warn  the 
girl  who  waits  your  side  of  the  table  not  to  sneak,  and 
then  there  you  are ;  it's  ten  to  one  no  master  spots  that 
you're  not  there." 

"I  wanted  you  to  go  somewhere  and  do  a  thing  for 
me,  if  you'd  cut  dinner.  You'll  be  back  half  an  hour 


174        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

before  school,  and  then  you  can  get  a  blow-out  at 
Andrew's.  Here's  a  bob  to  do  it  on."  That  was  the 
bob  I  got  from  Reggie;  so  I  didn't  lose  anything  on 
that. 

"Is  it  anything  to  do  with  eggs  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  I  said.  If  the  key  of  a  hen-house  hasn't 
got  anything  to  do  with  eggs,  what  has  ?  "You  won't 
see  the  point  of  it  at  first,  and  if  you  speak  about  it  to 
anyone  you'll  ruin  the  whole  thing.  You  must  just 
do  it  on  trust,  and  it  will  work  out  very  well.  I  sup- 
pose you  can  keep  a  secret." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so.    What  have  I  got  to  do?" 

"Go  to  the  plantation  on  Linthwaite  Fell ;  under  the 
top  stone  of  the  wall,  left  of  the  lower  gate,  you'll  find 
a  key;  take  that  key  and  put  it  again  under  the  top 
stone  of  the  wall,  but  this  time  left  of  the  upper  gate." 

"All  right.  But  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do 
with  eggs." 

"I  told  you  that  you  wouldn't  understand  it  at  first, 
and  I  can't  explain  it  yet.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
go  off  and  change  the  position  of  that  key,  as  I  said." 

So  off  he  went.  I'd  hardly  hoped  to  be  able  to  make 
Jimmy  go  and  do  that  without  telling  him  any  lies; 
but,  you  see,  I  hadn't  told  him  a  single  lie.  I  had  said 
that  he  wouldn't  understand  it  now,  but  I  hadn't  told 
him  that  he  would  ever  understand  it  any  better.  It 
was  a  comfort  to  me  to  think  that  the  girl  would  get 
the  key  all  right  now ;  it  made  me  easier  in  my  mind, 
and  I  ate  a  very  good  dinner. 

I  had  hardly  finished  before  Jimmy  came  back  and 
swore  that  the  key  was  not  there  at  all.  He'd  been 
there,  and  looked  both  sides  of  both  gates,  so  as  not  to 
make  any  mistake  about  it.  He  seemed  to  think  that  I 
had  been  playing  off  some  sell  upon  him. 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE     175 

"No,  I  haven't,"  I  said.  "As  it  happens,  this  is  a 
particularly  serious  business,  and  I  wish  to  goodness  I 
could  make  it  out." 

But  I  couldn't  make  it  out.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
Reggie  had  put  the  key  there ;  the  fact  that  he  paid  up 
his  bet  proved  that.  And  there  was  no  doubt  that 
Jimmy  had  not  found  the  key  there  when  he  went ;  he 
wouldn't  have  risked  disobeying  me  and  telling  me  a 
fib  on  the  top  of  it;  it  wouldn't  have  been  worth  his 
while.  And  I  couldn't  help  thinking  about  the  trouble 
that  girl  would  get  into  for  losing  the  key,  and  all 
through  my  fault.  You  can  believe  me  or  not — and 
most  likely  you  won't — but  I  hardly  slept  a  wink  that 
night  in  consequence. 

I  was  not  allowed  to  do  any  walking  until  Sunday, 
and  then  I  went  to  Manners  Church  with  the  rest  of 
the  school.  I  had  expected  that  the  girl,  being  angry 
with  me,  wouldn't  be  there;  so,  of  course,  she  was 
there,  and  in  the  seat  that  I  had  told  her  to  take.  This 
seat  happened  to  be  exactly  opposite  mine,  so  that  I 
could  hardly  help  seeing  her.  But  all  during  the  first 
part  of  the  service  she  wouldn't  look  at  me  in  the  least, 
but  kept  her  eyes  down  upon  her  book.  Just  in  the 
last  hymn  she  looked  up  for  a  second,  nodded  and 
smiled ;  it  was  all  done  in  a  flash,  and  the  next  moment 
she  had  got  the  usual  sort  of  hymn  expression  on  her 
face.  No  one  would  have  seen  that  nod  who  had  not 
been  watching  her  pretty  closely.  I  saw  that  every- 
thing must  be  all  right,  but  I  couldn't  make  out  how 
it  had  come  about.  I  wanted  to  give  her  some  sign  to 
tell  her  to  write  a  note  explaining  what  had  happened, 
to  put  it  in  her  glove,  and  drop  the  glove  as  she  passed 
me  in  the  churchyard  afterwards ;  so  that  I  could  pick 
it  up,  get  the  note  out  unseen,  and  return  the  glove  to 


176        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

her,  just  as  if  I  were  doing  an  ordinary  act  of  polite- 
ness to  a  girl  I  had  never  seen  before  in  my  life.  I 
couldn't  think  of  any  sign,  though,  that  would  express 
as  much  as  that.  Well,  it  was  no  good.  She  didn't 
look  at  me  again,  and  she  left  directly  the  service  was 
over.  The  school  always  stopped,  you  know,  till  every- 
body else  had  gone  out ;  so  there  I  had  to  sit  and  watch 
her  sailing  down  the  aisle. 

Next  day  an  extraordinary  thing  happened.  I  got 
three  letters  from  three  distinct  aunts,  none  of  whom 
knew  that  either  of  the  other  two  were  writing,  and 
each  letter  had  a  tip  in  it.  The  total  was  two  pounds 
five.  Well,  I  thought  to  myself  that  I'd  make  some 
provision  for  the  latter  end  of  the  term.  What  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  do  was  to  blue  one  quid  in  miscellane- 
ous things,  and  put  the  rest  in  the  Post  Office  Savings 
Bank  and  draw  it  out  again  when  I  was  very  hard  up. 
I  was  going  down  the  village  to  the  post  office,  when  I 
happened  to  stop  before  a  jeweller's  window.  You 
see,  in  the  village  there  are  lots  of  trades  go  to  one 
shop,  and  the  jeweller  was  also  an  ironmonger.  I 
didn't  want  to  look  at  his  plated  toast-racks  and  things 
of  that  kind.  I  wanted  to  see  an  entirely  new  rat-trap 
that  he  had  in  his  window.  As  I  was  looking  at  it,  I 
noticed  a  bundle  of  charms,  things  that  people  wear  on 
their  watch-chains.  There  were  several  of  them  alto- 
gether on  one  ring;  there  were  a  heart,  an  anchor,  a 
cross,  a  thing  like  a  diagram  out  of  Euclid,  and  a  silver 
key.  They  were  marked  seven-and-sixpence,  but  I  got 
them  for  seven  shillings,  after  a  lot  of  argument.  I 
didn't  put  any  money  in  the  savings  bank  after  all. 

Then  I  waited  for  Wednesday,  and  counted  the 
hours.  It  wasn't  so  much  that  I  wanted  to  see  the  girl 
and  give  her  the  present  I  had  bought  for  her,  as  that  I 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE     177 

wanted  to  get  the  whole  thing  cleared  up.  I  wanted  to 
know  what  had  happened  to  the  key  of  the  hen-house. 

I  was  in  the  plantation  early  on  Wednesday  after- 
noon. As  I  waited  there  a  boy  came  through  the  trees 
with  a  basket  and  a  key  in  it.  I  recognized  that  basket 
and  that  key.  I  suppose  I  stared  at  him;  it's  not 
unlikely.  At  any  rate,  just  after  he  had  gone  past  me, 
he  turned  round  and  said:  "What  are  you  doing, 
sneaking  about  here  ?" 

So  I  said :  "Sneak  yourself.  If  you  haven't  bought 
this  place,  you'd  better  go  on  and  bring  the  washing 
home." 

Well,  he  was  angry  at  that,  and  used  very  bad  lan- 
guage. He  walked  on  a  step  or  two,  and  then  picked 
up  a  stone  and  shied  it  at  me.  It  went  hard,  but  wide. 
So  I  shied  back.  It  was  the  best  shot  I  ever  took  in 
my  life.  It  hit  the  basket,  which  he  was  holding  loose- 
ly, and  sent  it  spinning.  He  picked  it  up,  and  shouted 
that  he'd  come  and  knock  the  head  off  my  shoulders. 
So  I  told  him  to  come  along,  and  he  didn't. 

Of  course,  I  saw  then  that  this  boy  had  been  sent  to 
get  the  eggs  instead  of  the  girl.  He  was  a  common 
kind  of  boy,  and  I  shouldn't  have  much  minded  if  I'd 
had  a  bit  of  a  row  with  him.  However,  I  saw  now  that 
the  girl  wasn't  coming.  Somehow  or  other  I  felt  al- 
most as  sorry  as  if  I  had  really  cared  about  it,  which, 
of  course,  I  didn't.  What  I  wanted  was  to  find  out 
about  the  key.  I  just  gave  it  all  up,  and  started  home. 

And  when  I  got  to  the  gate  of  the  plantation  there 
was  that  girl  sitting  on  it.  She  was  always  giving  me 
surprises.  She  was  dressed  rather  prettily — not  that  I 
take  much  notice  how  girls  are  dressed.  She  smiled  at 
me.  I  do  not  mind  owning,  although  I  am  prejudiced 
against  girls,  that  I  like  the  way  she  smiled.  It  made 


178        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

you  feel  as  if  there  were  an  extra  "half,"  and  you'd 
got  let  off  an  "impost"  that  you'd  expected. 

Then  we  began  to  explain  things,  both  of  us  talking 
at  once.  If  she  hadn't  interrupted  me,  and  had  just 
answered  my  questions,  I  should  have  understood  what 
had  happened  much  sooner.  However,  I  got  at  it  at 
last.  Winter  had  taken  the  key  and  put  it  against  the 
wrong  gate,  just  as  I  supposed.  Her  cousin  was  up  a 
tree  in  the  plantation  at  the  time,  getting  a  magpie's 
nest.  He  saw  Winter  come  busting  up  as  hard  as  he 
could  run,  slip  the  key  under  the  stone,  and  then  bolt 
off  again.  Her  cousin  thought  that  a  very  queer  thing 
for  any  chap  to  do,  so  he  came  down  from  his  tree  and 
went  to  have  a  look.  He  lifted  up  the  stone  and  found 
that  it  was  the  key  of  the  hen-house.  That  fairly 
puzzled  him.  He  did  not  see  how  any  boy  from  the 
school  could  have  got  the  key,  or  why — if  he  had  got  it 
— he  should  have  been  in  such  a  mighty  hurry  to  hide 
it  just  there.  So  her  cousin  picked  up  the  key,  went 
home  with  it,  and  told  her  uncle  all  about  it.  Then  it 
seemed  that  her  uncle  rather  went  for  her,  and  told 
her  that  she  must  have  been  up  to  some  joke  with  one 
of  the  school-lads. 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  I  asked. 

"I  told  him  I  hadn't." 

"That  was  a  buster." 

"No,  it  wasn't.  There  hadn't  been  any  joke.  It 
was  a  very  serious  accident.  You  know  it  was.  You 
were  laid  up  for  days  with  it.  I  don't  tell  fibs.  Then 
uncle  said  I  must  have  given  the  key  to  one  of  the  boys, 
and  I  told  him  again  that  I  hadn't." 

"Well,  anyhow,  that  was  a  fib." 

"Of  course  it  wasn't.  I  hadn't  given  the  key  to 
anybody.  I'd  lent  it.  He  didn't  ask  me  if  I'd  lent  it, 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  HEN-HOUSE    179 

or  I  should  have  told  him.  So  he  said  I  must  have 
dropped  it,  and  that,  as  I  was  so  careless,  Bill  would 
go  to  fetch  the  eggs  in  future." 

"I'm  sorry  you  got  into  a  row  about  it." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  much ;  and  it  wasn't  your  fault,  any- 
how. I  don't  mind — I'm  leaving  to-morrow." 

"I  wish  you  weren't.  I  might  come  up  here  again 
in  the  afternoon  and " 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  She'd  got  teeth 
like  the  inside  of  a  cocoa-nut.  "No,"  she  said.  "It 
wouldn't  do." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  wouldn't." 

"That's  no  reason." 

"Besides,  they'd  suspect.  I  believe  my  cousin  does 
suspect  now.  I  don't  like  him  much.  Of  course,  he's 
awfully  kind  in  the  ways  of  getting  me  things,  and  so 
on." 

"Why  don't  you  like  him?" 

She  looked  down  and  waggled  her  foot.  "Oh,  well, 
I  don't  know,  some  way.  Can't  you  guess?" 

"I  saw  him  in  the  plantation  just  now,"  I  said.  "I 
wonder  if  he  knew  what  I  was  there  for." 

She  laughed.  "Of  course  he  couldn't!  You  see, 
you  weren't  the  boy  that  he  saw  with  the  key." 

"No.  I  say — talking  about  that  key — I  got  this  that 
I  wanted  to  give  you."  I  pulled  out  the  bundle  of 
charms  that  I  had  bought. 

Now  this  was  a  queer  thing.  I  had  fully  intended 
to  imply  somehow  that  the  thing  was  real  silver  and 
I'd  given  a  good  deal  of  money  for  it.  It's  not  much 
use  being  generous  unless  people  know  that  you  really 
are  generous.  Yet  somehow  or  other  I  said  the  exact 
opposite.  I  said : 


i8o        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"It's  a  sort  of  memento.  You  could  wear  it  on  a 
watch-chain ;  it  isn't  anything  much." 

She  was  very  pleased  with  it.  She  kept  on  thanking 
me  over  and  over  again.  And  she  said  she  didn't  think 
she  really  ought  to  take  it. 

"Yes,  you  ought  and  you  must,"  I  told  her. 

"Anyhow,  I  think  I  must,"  she  said.  "You're  a  very 
nice  boy.  I  wish  I  had  got  a  memento  to  give  you." 

Now  you  may  think  that  what  happened  next  was 
all  a  planned  thing,  and  that  I  had  intended  it  from 
the  first.  If  so,  you're  wrong.  As  a  rule,  I  rather 
despise  girls  than  not.  I  suppose  that  the  reason  why 
I  said  what  I  did  was  because  this  was  really,  speaking 
fairly,  rather  an  exceptional  kind  of  girl.  It  seemed 
to  come  over  me  suddenly.  What  I  said  was : 

"Give  me  a  kiss,  then." 

She  looked  away  and  shook  her  head,  but  didn't 
say  anything. 

"Yes,  do." 

"Couldn't." 

I  almost  asked  her  if,  as  she  wouldn't  kiss  me,  I 
might  kiss  her,  but  I  thought  that  wouldn't  be  a  good 
thing  to  do,  because  she  might  refuse  again.  So  I 
just  kissed  her  without  saying  anything.  She  turned 
white  and  then  crimson.  Quite  suddenly  she  did  what 
she  had  just  said  she  couldn't  do.  Before  I  entirely 
recovered  myself  she  had  gone.  She  ran  away  through 
the  plantation  and  I  never  saw  her  again. 

I  shouldn't  like  this  to  be  generally  known.  I  don't 
want  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  school-days  in  licking 
chaps  or  getting  licked  by  them,  and  that  is  what 
would  happen  if  Reggie  Winter  or  any  of  them  got  to 
hear  of  it. 


XVI 
ONE  HOUR  OF  FAME 

MR.  BATSON  was  a  picture- frame  maker;  but 
this  is  not  to  say  that  he  actually  made  picture- 
frames.  He  procured  the  mouldings  in  lengths  to  his 
esteemed  order  from  the  wholesale  place  in  the  City; 
it  was  Billunt  in  the  workshop  down  the  yard  who  cut 
them  up  and  fitted  them  together. 

It  was  Mr.  Batson,  however,  who  conducted  all  the 
diplomacy  of  the  business.  He  took  the  orders,  and 
by  the  charm  of  his  manner  generally  managed  to  force 
upon  a  customer  one  of  the  four  mouldings  which  he 
had  in  stock.  The  same  charm  had  occasionally  in- 
duced artists  to  deal  with  him  on  a  cash  basis.  The 
charm  was  reserved  strictly  for  business;  in  private 
life  he  took  an  interest  that  was  almost  virulent  in 
local  politics,  and  not  infrequently  called  his  wife  a 
fathead. 

Herbert  Wymondel  was  a  very  great  man  and  a  fine 
novelist.  Reviewers  had  compared  him  with  Guy  de 
Maupassant.  He  was  pessimistic  and  harrowing.  Yet 
his  appearance  did  not  suggest  that  he  could  harrow. 
He  was  small  and  delicate,  and  rather  obviously  vain. 

Now  a  friend  of  Wymondel's,  who  was  an  artist, 
had  presented  him  with  a  small  landscape.  It  was 
entitled,  "The  Haunt  of  the  Heron,"  but  in  spite  of 
this  the  hanging  committee  at  the  Royal  Academy  had 
been  reckless  enough  to  reject  it. 

181 


182         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Wymondel  wrote  one  of  the  three  most  graceful 
letters  of  thanks  that  were  written  that  year,  and 
wondered  what  he  should  do  with  that  rotten  picture. 
He  did  not  propose  to  sacrifice  any  of  his  valuable 
wall-space  to  it.  His  taste  was  quite  perfect,  and  his 
rooms  advertised  it.  With  the  necessity  came  the  op- 
portunity. 

Wymondel's  best  friend's  eldest  daughter  announced 
to  the  world,  through  the  medium  of  the  "Morning 
Post,"  her  intention  of  perpetrating  almost  immedi- 
ate matrimony.  Wymondel  decided  to  bestow  upon 
her  "The  Haunt  of  the  Heron,"  and  to  procure  a  new, 
but  not  necessarily  expensive,  frame  for  it.  He  walked 
into  Mr.  Batson's  shop. 

Mr.  Batson's  diplomacy  was  beaten.  Wymondel 
absolutely  declined  to  accept  any  of  the  mouldings 
forced  upon  him.  He  was  self-assertive  and  dicta- 
torial, and  insisted  on  seeing  the  pattern-book.  And 
when  he  had  made  his  selection,  he  said  the  thing 
would  be  no  good  unless  he  could  have  it  finished  and 
delivered  at  his  rooms  by  the  following  morning. 

Batson  became  impressive.  "It  shall  be  done,  sir. 
A  special  messenger  will  be  sent  off  to  our  factories, 
and  bring  back  that  moulding  at  once.  Then  I  shall 
put  two  of  my  best  men  on  to  it,  and  make  them  work 
overtime  if  need  be.  You  shall  have  it  complete  by 
to-morrow  morning.  You  can  depend  upon  me  abso- 
lutely. And  the  name  and  address,  sir?" 

Wymondel  presented  Mr.  Batson  with  his  visiting- 
card,  and  paused  for  a  moment  to  see  the  delighted 
smile  of  recognition  spread  over  Mr.  Batson's  face. 
The  smile  not  arriving,  he  went  out.  Mr.  Batson  did 
not  waste  much  time  in  reading  novels,  had  never 
heard  of  Herbert  Wymondel  in  his  life  before,  and, 


ONE  HOUR  OF  FAME  183 

except  as  a  customer,  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to 
hear  of  him  again. 

He  opened  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  shop  and  called 
down  the  yard :  "Billunt !" 

Billunt — nobody  ever  called  him  William  Hunt — 
appeared  from  the  stable,  which  had  been  converted 
into  a  workshop.  He  was,  on  this  occasion,  to  be  not 
only  the  special  messenger,  but  also  two  of  Mr.  Bat- 
son's  best  workmen,  as  indicated,  he  being  the  only 
man  that  Mr.  Batson  employed.  He  was  a  clever 
carpenter,  when  his  mind  was  not  preoccupied  by  am- 
bition, or  his  body  by  intemperance. 

"What  are  you  doin'  ?"  asked  Mr.  Batson. 

"Tidyin'  up  generally,"  said  Billunt. 

"Well,  you  take  this  here  drorin'  and  measure  it  up. 
It's  got  to  be  done  in  4076,  and  you  must  go  and  fetch 
the  stuff  from  Cannon  Street.  Don't  try  anything  on, 
because  I  know  what  the  fare  is.  Take  the  gent's  card, 
and  enter  it  up  in  the  book,  and  hurry." 

Billunt  was  not  sorry  to  get  out  of  the  workshop 
for  a  bit  on  a  fine  morning,  but  hurry  was  distasteful 
to  him.  He  took  off  his  apron  and  put  on  his  coat. 
He  then  visited  an  establishment  where  he  could  pro- 
cure a  wash,  a  shave,  ten  cigarettes,  and  a  decided 
opinion  upon  Mr.  Lloyd  George  for  threepence  hall- 
penny. 

His  appearance  being  now  33^/3  per  cent  above  nor- 
mal, he  entered  his  train  on  the  Underground.  As  he 
had  not  a  first-class  ticket,  it  can  hardly  be  necessary 
to  say  that  he  entered  a  first-class  carriage.  At  any 
rate,  no  one  who  knew  Billunt  would  have  expected 
anything  else. 

It  happened  that  opposite  to  Billunt  there  was  seated 
a  young  gentleman  of  refined  appearance,  absorbed  in 


184        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

the  reading  of  a  six-shilling  novel.  Billunt,  who  had 
the  overlooking  sense  strongly  developed,  observed 
that  the  title  of  the  novel  was  "The  Nethermost  Pit." 
This  merely  interested  him  as  being  the  place  to  which 
on  Saturday  nights  he  sometimes  directed  Mrs.  Hunt 
to  go ;  but  he  also  noted  the  name  of  the  author,  Her- 
bert Wymondel. 

Now  where  on  earth  had  he  seen  that  name  before  ? 

Suddenly  it  dawned  on  him.  That  was  the  name  of 
the  gent  on  the  card,  and  he  had  that  card  in  his  pocket. 
Billunt  felt  that  something  ought  to  be  done  about  it. 
It  might  be  worth  a  drink,  or  it  might  not.  In  any 
case,  it  would  form  the  basis  of  pleasing  conversation, 
and  accentuate  his  sense  of  his  importance.  He  crossed 
over  and  sat  next  the  young  gentleman. 

"  'Ope  you're  enjoyin'  that  little  thing  of  mine," 
said  Billunt 

Billunt  was  washed  and  shaved,  and  was  smoking  a 
"Pride  of  the  Harem"  cigarette.  It  was  one  of  the 
few  occasions  of  his  life  on  which  the  end  of  a  two- 
foot  rule  was  not  protruding  from  one  of  his  pockets. 
Still,  he  looked  like  a  carpenter.  Further,  he  looked 
like  a  carpenter  of  low  morals  and  irregular  manner  of 
life.  The  young  gentleman,  begging  his  pardon,  said 
he  did  not  understand. 

Billunt  drew  the  visiting-card  from  his  pocket  and 
presented  it.  "That's  me,"  he  said  impressively.  "I 
did  it." 

Young  Mr.  Smith  was  astonished  and  delighted. 
Herbert  Wymondel  had  no  more  enthusiastic  admirer, 
and  Mr.  Smith  was  perusing  "The  Nethermost  Pit" 
for  the  second  time.  The  author  did  not  look  in  the 
least  like  what  he  would  have  expected,  but  this  seemed 
to  be  evidence  of  his  genuineness.  People  never  do  fit 


ONE  HOUR  OF  FAME  185 

in  with  your  preconceived  notion  of  them.  Mr.  Smith 
had  just  time  to  express  his  extreme  pleasure  when  the 
ticket-inspector  came  along — a  ticket-inspector  who 
had  seen  Billunt  once  or  twice  before. 

"Season,"  said  Billunt,  in  an  off-hand  and  business- 
like way. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  the  inspector  sardonically; 
"come  on  now." 

Billunt  produced  his  ticket.  "And  that's  the  fault 
of  your  bloke  at  the  booking-office,"  he  said.  "I  arst 
him  for  a  first,  and  I  paid  for  a  first,  and  this  is  what 
he  gives  me.  Nobody  but  yourselves  to  blame  for  it 
this  time,  anyhow." 

"Pay  the  difference,"  said  the  inspector  wearily. 

Billunt  fumbled  in  his  pocket.  "Sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  oblige,"  he  said,  "but  I  left  my  sovereign-case  in  my 
evening  clothes,  coming  back  from  the  Opera  last 
night." 

Smith  had  not  heard  all  that  was  said,  but  he  real- 
ized the  nature  of  the  difficulty.  These  authors  were 
so  absent-minded  and  careless  about  money  matters. 
"Permit  me,  Mr.  Wymondel,"  said  Smith.  "You  can 
send  it  back  to  me  any  time." 

Billunt  permitted  Mr.  Smith  to  appease  the  ticket- 
inspector,  and  said  that  with  these  young  boys  they 
employed  in  the  booking-office  nowadays  mistakes  were 
bound  to  happen.  He  then  passed  one  hand  over  his 
forehead.  This  he  felt  would  suggest  intellect. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Smith,  "if  you  would  mind  my 
speaking  about  this  book.  Of  course,  I  know  some 
authors  are  so  sensitive." 

"A  bit  that  way  myself,"  said  Billunt  complacently. 
"Still,  seeing  how  you  got  me  out  of  this  little  diffi- 
culty, I  dunno  that  I  ought  to  be  stand-offish." 


186        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"I  am  sure,  Mr.  Wymondel,  that  if  you  knew  the 
tremendous  impression  that  'The  Nethermost  Pit'  has 
made  upon  me — I  am  now  reading  it  for  the  second 
time." 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty  hot  stuff,  ain't  it,"  said  Billunt. 

"Ah,  you  who  made  it  can  speak  of  it  jokingly, 
but  I  know  men  to  whom  this  book  is  a  positive  reli- 
gion, men  who  would  envy  me  the  privilege  of  meeting 
you  in  this  way.  I  have  often  wondered  what  the 
genesis  of  the  book  was." 

"Genesis,"  Billunt  repeated  reflectively.  "Well, 
that's  hardly  the  kind  of  thing  I  should  care  to  talk 
about  in  a  railway  carriage.  Besides,  it's  a  longish 
story.  Gettin'  out  here?  So  am  I.  It's  just  possible 
there  might  be  a  place  near  by  where  we  could  discuss 
it.  I  don't  know  if  the  station  has  a  refreshment- 
room." 

The  station  had  a  refreshment-room.  At  the  en- 
trance to  it  Billunt  hesitated.  "Coming  out  without 
money,  like  this,"  he  said,  "I  don't  hardly  feel  as  if  I 
ought  to." 

"But,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  "that's  all  right." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Billunt,  "mine  will  be  a  drop 
of  Scotch." 

At  the  second  drink  Mr.  Smith  ventured  to  suggest 
that  he  would  like  to  hear  something  about  the  genesis 
of  "The  Nethermost  Pit." 

Billunt  said  that  Genesis  reminded  him  of  the  name 
of  a  horse  that  he  ought  to  have  backed  for  the  Grand 
National.  It  was  the  only  time  he  had  ever  left  the 
race  alone,  and  it  was  the  only  time  he  had  ever  been 
tipped  a  winner.  It  was  funny  how  these  things 
happened. 

Mr.  Smith  was  young  and  innocent,  but  he  was 


ONE  HOUR  OF  FAME  187 

beginning  to  have  grave  suspicions.  Surely  a  man 
who  wrote  like  that  could  not  possibly  speak  like  this. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wymondel,"  said  Smith.  "What  I 
wanted  to  know  was  how  you  came  to  write  that  book. 
What  put  the  idea  of  it  into  your  mind?" 

"Then,  why  couldn't  you  have  said  so  before?" 
asked  Billunt,  "instead  of  wasting  your  time  and  my 
own  with  this  talk  about  genesis.  Well,  I'll  tell  you 
the  truth.  The  thing  came  over  me  all  of  a  sudden 
like." 

Billunt's  articulation  had  ceased  to  be  perfect.  Mr. 
Smith  looked  at  him  sternly.  "This  is  fraud,"  he 
said.  "You  are  not  Mr.  Wymondel  at  all." 

"See  here,  my  ole  pal,"  said  Billunt,  "I'll  act  fairly 
by  you.  You  stand  me  one  more  drink,  and  I'll  tell 
you  whether  I  am  or  not." 

Mr.  Smith  was  a  weak  man.  He  stood  him  one 
more. 

"All  ri',"  said  Billunt,  as  he  put  down  his  glass. 
"You've  acted  like  a  gennelman  to  me,  and  I'm  goin'  to 
act  like  a  gennelman  to  you.  As  a  marrer  o'  fac',  I 
really  am  Mr.  Blymondiwog,  but  I  don't  look  like  it, 
and  that's  been  my  misfortune  all  my  life.  Shake 
hands  on  it,  ole  pal." 

Billunt  had  left  for  the  City  at  eleven  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  directions  to  hurry.  At  twelve  he  had  not  re- 
turned, and  Mr.  Batson  was  beginning  to  be  angry. 
At  four  in  the  afternoon,  when  Billunt  staggered  into 
the  shop  with  a  quite  inordinate  amount  of  the  wrong 
pattern  moulding,  Mr.  Batson  was  almost  speechless 
with  fury. 

Billunt  maintained  his  dignity.  He  denied  abso- 
lutely that  he  was  drunk,  but  made  the  generous  con- 


i88        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

cession  that  he  was  not  strictly  sober.  He  said  what 
had  happened  was,  that  he  had  simply  missed  one  train 
after  another,  which  might  occur  to  anybody.  He 
made  a  generous  offer  to  Mr.  Batson  to  tell  him  some- 
thing that  would  make  him  laugh,  something  about  a 
Mr.  Mywondigom,  who  wrote  a  book  called  "Hell," 
but  he  was  not  permitted  to  remain  long  enough  on  the 
premises  to  execute  his  purpose. 


XVII 
SARA 

THE  defendant  was  Miss  Sara  Frederica  Con- 
stantia  Hallowes,  hereinafter   called   Sara   for 
short,  aged  seven,  resident  at  present  at  114  Marine 
Parade,  Salton-on-Sea. 

The  judge  was  Mrs.  Amy  Hallowes,  aged  thirty- 
two,  of  the  same  address,  mother  of  the  above. 

Jane  Shotover,  nurse,  aged  twenty-four,  gave  evi- 
dence as  follows : 

"It  'appened  like  thissum.  I  was  setting  under  the 
breakwaterum,  and  I  give  Misserrer  her  wooden  spide, 
and  I  said,  'Now,  if  you  was  to  build  a  nice,  pretty 
castle  out  of  sand,  then  I'd  come  and  look  at  it,  and 
that  would  be  a  s'prise.'  She'd  give  some  trouble  over 
me  not  letting  of  'er  ride  'er  donkey  into  the  sea, 
and  what  I  wanted  was  to  keep  'er  mind  off." 

Sara  :     I  want  the  red  ink. 

The  Judge :     Hush.    Go  on,  nurse. 

"Wellum,  she  took  'er  spide  and  started  off,  wan- 
derin'  about  among  the  people,  which  was  not  what 
she'd  been  told.  She'd  got  'er  shoes  and  stockin's  off, 
and  'er  skirts  tucked  into  them  mackintosh  drors;  so 
I  didn't  see  'ow  she  could  come  to  no  'arm.  But  I 
kept  my  hi  on  'er,  and  every  now  and  again  I'd  sing 
out  to  'er  to  get  on  with  that  castle.  There  was  a  old 
gennelman  settin'  on  the  beach,  readin'  of  a  piper. 
Looked  to  me  like  something  in  the  insurance  line." 

189 


STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

The  Judge :     What  made  you  think  that,  nurse  ? 

"Wellum,  'e'd  got  a  pile  gray  felt  'at  and  was  sixty 
if  'e  was  a  dye,  but  that  may  have  been  just  my  idea. 
Any'ow,  Misserrer  started  walkin'  round  an'  round 
'im,  like  a  teetotum,  and  people  on  the  beach  larfin'  at 
'er  as  might  have  known  better,  and  I  could  see  he  was 
gettin'  annoyed." 

The  Judge :     You  ought  to  have  stopped  her,  nurse. 

"So  I  diddum.  At  least,  so  I  was  goin'  to  do.  But 
just  as  I  got  up  with  'er " 

Sara :     Can  I  have  the  red  ink  now,  mummie  ?     , 

The  Judge:  Hush!  I  want  to  hear  what  you've 
been  doing.  Well,  nurse? 

"As  I  was  saying,  just  as  I  got  up  with  'er,  she 
worked  round  to  the  back  of  the  insurance  gennelman, 
upped  with  'er  spide,  and  brought  it  down  with  all  'er 
force  on  'is  'at.  Of  course,  I  erpolergized,  but  I  could 
see  he  was  put  out  about  it,  though  that  was  no  reason 
for  using  the  word  he  did." 

Sara :  I  want  to  do  a  pickshur  of  a  insurance  wiv 
his  head  bleeding.  So,  can  I  have  the  red— 

The  Judge:     Hush,  and  don't  interrupt  again. 

"Wellum.  Them  as  was  larfin'  before  larfed  worse 
than  ever,  and  I'm  shaw  the  wye  some  of  them  lyedies 
offer  'er  chocklits  and  ler  'er  plye  with  their  dogs, 
which  mye  be  sife  or  mye  not,  is  nothin'  short  of  a — 
well,  you  'ardly  know  what  to  sye  to  'em.  So  I  just 
took  and  brought  'er  strite  'ome." 

Sara :     And  now  can  I  have  the  red  ink  ? 

The  Judge :  Leave  her  to  me,  nurse.  I'll  send  her 
up  to  you  directly. 

"Very  goodum." 

The  judge,  left  alone  with  Sara,  pointed  out  that 
she  was  not  to  go  chattering  to  strangers,  who  did  not 


SARA  191 

really  want  her ;  and  much  less  was  she  to  walk  round 
and  round  them ;  and  much,  much  less  was  she  to  beat 
the  pale  gray  hat  of  a  gentleman  with  her  wooden 
spade.  She  had  been  a  naughty  child,  and  was  to  go 
up  to  the  nursery  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 

Sara  :     And  can  I  take  the  red  ink  up,  too  ? 

That  reminded  the  judge.  She  did  not  want  Sara 
to  think  or  talk  about  terrible  or  ugly  things.  A  nice- 
minded  little  girl  would  not  even  wish  to  make  a 
picture  of  a  poor  gentleman  with  a  nasty  wound  in  his 
head.  She  would  rather  think  about  beautiful  things. 
There  were  plenty  of  beautiful  things  all  around  us. 
("The  Young  Mother's  Handbook."  By  Charles 
Baldley  Rushington,  B.A.) 

"What's  beautiful?"  asked  Sara. 

The  judge  sternly  repressed  an  absolutely  senseless 
impulse  to  say  that  Sara  herself  was  the  most  perfectly 
beautiful  thing  on  earth.  She  pointed  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  asked  what  could  be  more  beautiful  than  that 
field  of  corn  with  the  poppies  dotted  all  about  it? 

"Can't  do  poppies  wivout  red  ink,"  said  Sara. 

After  Sara  had  gone  to  bed  that  evening,  her  nurse 
obtained  permission  to  go  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air.  She  met  the  breath  of  fresh  air  on  the  beach  by 
appointment,  and  its  name  was  George.  He  was  an 
honest  man,  but  looked  as  if  his  clothes  were  too  much 
for  him. 

Jane  began  to  narrate  her  sorrows  to  George,  and 
was  a  little  annoyed  to  find  him  in  no  sympathetic 
depression. 

"Ah !"  said  George,  "kids  will  be  kids.  Nice  little 
thing  she  always  looks,  too." 

"And  that's  what  always  'appens/'  said  Jane,  with 


192         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

bitter  conviction.  "She  goes  a-dancin'  about  that 
beach  like  some  wild  Injun,  and  then  lyedies  says, 
'Isn't  she  sweetly  quaint?'  and  words  like  them.  I've 
no  patience  with  it.  Well,  as  I  was  syin',  'er  mother 
give  'er  a  talkin'  to  over  what  she'd  done  to  the  insur- 
ance gennelman's  'at,  and  then  she  come  up  to  the 
nursery  lookin'  as  meek  as  Moses,  and  both  'er  little 
'ands  under  'er  pinafore.  'You  come  'ere,  Misserrer, 
and  'ave  yer  'air  done,'  I  says,  and  caught  'old  of  'er. 
I  wasn't  rough,  because  that  ain't  my  way,  and  no  gel 
that  was  rough  could  keep  my  plice  for  ten  minutes. 
But  there — all  of  a  sudden  there  was  that  pore  child's 
life-blood  gushing  out  of  'er  and  streamin'  across  the 
floor.  Lor',  it  did  give  me  a  turn.  I  come  over  quite 
faint,  went  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  might  'ave  fallen 
if  it  'adn't  bin  for  the  sewing-machine.  And  there  she 
stood  in  a  reg'lar  pool  of  it,  larfin'  like  anythink." 

George  seemed  mildly  puzzled.  "Look  'ere,"  he 
said,  "what  are  you  tellin'  us?" 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  it  wasn't  'er  life- 
blood.  She'd  bin  botherin'  'er  mother  to  let  'er  'ave 
the  red  ink,  and  'er  mother  didn't  say  'Yes'  and  didn't 
say  vNo.'  So  afore  she  come  up  to  the  nursery,  that 
child  slipped  into  the  library  and  'id  the  red  ink  under 
'er  pinafore  so  as  I  shouldn't  tike  it  awye.  And  so, 
as  a  matter  of  course " 

Jane  broke  off  her  narration  in  dignified  disgust  at 
George's  behavior.  "Oh,  well,  George,  if  it  amuses 
you,  perhaps  the  less  I  say  the  better.  What  you  don't 
seem  to  see  is  if  that  'adn't  bin  red  ink  I  should  have 
been  a  murderer." 


I  DO  not  think  there  are  very  many  men  who  feel 
pleased  when  they  are  summoned  to  serve  on  a 
special  jury.  You  have  to  neglect  your  business  or 
profession — possibly  for  days  at  a  time — and  you  get 
one  guinea,  of  which  you  return  one  shilling  to  the 
usher.  Yet,  if  you  have  received  the  mystical,  yellow 
paper,  cannot  persuade  your  doctor  to  give  you  a 
certificate,  and  have  no  other  legal  excuse,  it  is  just  as 
well  to  obey  the  summons.  By  doing  so  you  show  that 
you  realize  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  citizen- 
ship, and  that  is  important.  By  not  doing  so  you  may, 
I  am  told,  get  it  made  unpleasantly  warm  for  you ;  that 
also  is  rather  important. 

So  one  dark  and  foggy  morning  I  found  my  way 
with  considerable  difficulty  to  Queen's  Bench  No.  3^2. 
There  were  other  special  jurors  already  there,  and  we 
gathered  at  the  back  of  the  court,  and  discussed  prob- 
abilities, and  grumbled  together,  while  we  waited  for 
proceedings  to  proceed.  One  man  happened  to  remark, 
with  despairing  optimism,  that  at  any  rate  we  got  a 
guinea  for  doing  it. 

"I  would  cheerfully  give  two  to  get  off  it,"  I  said. 

At  that  moment  someone  touched  me  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  a  pleasant  voice  said :  "Might  I  have  the 
favor  of  a  word  with  you,  sir?" 


194        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

I  turned  round  and  saw  a  well-dressed,  nice-looking 
man  of  about  thirty.  I  did  not  remember  that  I  had 
ever  seen  him  before,  and  I  could  not  think  what  his 
business  with  me  could  be,  but  I  said,  "Certainly. 
What  is  it?" 

"I  must  ask  you"  he  said,  dropping  his  voice,  "to 
pardon  me  for  having  inadvertently  overheard  what 
you  said  just  now.  But  I  understood  you  to  say  that 
you  would  give  two  guineas  to  get  off  serving  on  this 
jury." 

"So  I  would— gladly." 

He  gave  a  charming  smile.  "Quite  natural.  It  is 
really  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  be  able  to  accommodate 
you.  When  your  name  is  called  I  will  answer  for  you. 
The  officials  here  know  neither  you  nor  me  by  sight. 
Briefly,  I  shall  impersonate  you  with  absolute  safety. 
You  can  pay  the  two  guineas  now,  immediately  after  I 
have  answered  to  your  name;  or,  if  you  prefer  greater 
security,  you  can  give  me  an  address  at  which  I  may 
call  for  a  similar  honorarium  after  the  jury  is  dis- 
charged." 

"My  good  man,"  I  said,  "I  am  always  found  out. 
That  is  my  luck.  I  am  frequently  found  out  even 
when  I  have  done  nothing,  and  if  I  have  done  anything 
then  my  ultimate  exposure  is  a  certainty.  I  am  sorry, 
but  we  cannot  do  business." 

He  still  retained  his  delightful  manner.  "Ah!"  he 
said,  "then  I  have  troubled  you  to  no  purpose.  Accept 
my  sincere  regret.  If  you  have  by  any  chance  a  friend 
here  who  might  possibly  require  a  substitute,  a  friend 
who  has  not  your  peculiarly  unfortunate  habit  of  being 
found  out " 

"Quite  so,"  I  said.  "Man  over  there  in  a  fur  coat, 
Gatterley  by  name,  he  is  required  urgently  by  his  busi- 


THE  BLANKING  BUSINESS         195 

ness  this  morning.  Ask  for  five.  He  is  wealthy,  and 
if  he  does  it  at  all  he  would  give  that." 

This  was  immoral  of  me,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  it. 
The  young  man  smiled,  bowed,  thanked  me,  and  re- 
tired. A  minute  afterwards  I  saw  him  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  Gatterley. 

Ultimately  my  name  was  called,  and  I  answered. 
Gatterley's  name  was  also  called,  and  there  was  an 
answer.  There  were  twelve  of  us  in  the  jury-box. 
But  Gatterley  was  not  there,  and  the  young  man  with 
the  pleasant  manners  was. 

I  met  Gatterley  shortly  afterwards.  "Hullo,"  I  said. 
"We  were  both  called  the  other  day,  but  I  didn't  see 
you  in  the  box." 

"Ssh !"  said  Gatterley.  "I  wasn't  there.  Bought  a 
substitute  for  ten  pounds — a  most  gentlemanly  young 
fellow.  It  was  worth  twenty  times  that  to  me  to  be  at 
the  office  that  morning.  Perfectly  safe,  you  know." 

"I'm  disgusted  with  you,"  I  said.  "You  have  no 
right  to  shirk  your  duties  as  a  citizen.  Who  was  your 
substitute  ?" 

"A  man  I'd  never  seen  before — called  himself  Mr. 
Blank." 

"Any  address  ?" 

"None." 

I  was  sorry  for  that,  because  Mr.  Blank  was  begin- 
ning to  have  some  interest  for  me,  and  it  would  have 
amused  me  to  see  him  again. 

Chance  threw  him  in  my  way  about  a  year  after- 
wards. I  saw  him  enter  a  first-class  smoking  compart- 
ment at  Waterloo.  He  was  wearing  a  moustache — 
previously  he  had  been  clean-shaven — but  otherwise  he 
was  unchanged.  He  thanked  the  porter  who  handed  in 
his  rugs  and  hat-box  most  cordially,  but  did  not  give 


196        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

him  the  customary  coppers.  I  felt  sure  it  was  Mr. 
Blank,  and  took  particular  care  to  enter  the  same  com- 
partment. 

He  recognized  me  at  once,  and  remembered  fully 
the  circumstances  under  which  we  had  previously  met 
— that  he  had  offered  to  impersonate  me  on  a  special 
jury  for  the  sum  of  two  guineas,  and  that  I  had  been 
afraid  to  risk  it.  "You  see,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of 
uprightness  and  candor,  "I  make  no  pretense  of  not 
knowing  you,  or  of  denying  what  occurred."  The 
train  moved  off.  "We  are  alone  in  the  compartment," 
he  said,  "and  I  detest  secrecy  unless  it  is  essential.  To 
you  I  should  especially  wish  to  be  open,  for  I  owe  you 
a  debt  of  gratitude.  You  introduced  me  to  your 
friend,  Mr.  Gatterley,  who  seemed  particularly  anxious 
to  get  to  his  business  that  morning.  In  consequence 
I  represented  him  (unworthily,  but  to  the  best  of  my 
ability)  on  the  jury,  receiving  an  honorarium  of  fif- 
teen pounds — the  highest  that  I  ever  received  for  simi- 
lar services." 

I  believe  that  fifteen  was  the  real  figure.  Gatterley 
told  me  ten,  but  he  always  says  that  he  had  paid  less 
than  he  really  did  pay  in  order  to  get  himself  a  char- 
acter for  sharpness. 

"The  highest  that  you  ever  received  ?  Do  you  mean 
that  you  make  it  a  business  of  impersonating  jurors?" 

"It  is  merely  a  branch  of  my  business.  It  brings 
me  in  an  income  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  while  I  am  at  it.  But  I  do  not  practise 
it  for  more  than  a  few  months  in  the  year.  The  mo- 
notony would  make  it  tiresome;  and  the  risk  of  detec- 
tion would  be  too  great.  Yes,  I  use  disguises — slight 
disguises — a  change  of  facial  expression,  the  addition 


THE  BLANKING  BUSINESS         197 

of  a  pair  of  spectacles,  a  different  overcoat,  and,  of 
course,  I  change  my  courts,  and  occasionally  absent 
myself  altogether.  I  left  the  Law  Courts  this  morning, 
by  the  way." 

"And  now?" 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  have  rather  a  bad 
accident.  When  I  get  over  that  I  shall  go  into  the 
country  and  get  bitten  by  a  lot  of  dogs.  I  am  not  mad 
— these  are  different  branches  of  my  business." 

"I  confess  that  I  don't  understand  it." 

"I  should  describe  it  as  a  blanking  business.  In  the 
law  courts  I  am  a  blank,  and  can  be  filled  up  with  the 
name  of  any  special  juror  who  requires  my  services. 
As  for  the  accident,  you  will  observe  that  the  door  of 
this  carriage  is  not  properly  fastened.  No ;  it  is  not,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  neglect  of  the  company's  servants, 
for  I  arranged  it  like  that  myself.  When  we  are  com- 
ing into  Vauxhall  Station  I  shall  stand  up  to  get 
something  off  the  rack;  the  jolting  of  the  train  will 
throw  me  against  the  door ;  the  door  being  improperly 
fastened  will  fly  open,  and  I  shall  fall  out  on  the  plat- 
form. As  I  shall  not  hurt  myself  in  the  least — having 
done  this  kind  of  thing  before — and  as  it  will  not  be 
accidental,  I  may  call  it  a  blank  accident.  I  fill  up  the 
blanks  with  neglect  on  the  part  of  the  company's  serv- 
ants and  severe  nervous  shock  to  myself.  I  fancy  the 
company  will  sooner  pay  me  ten  pounds  for  compen- 
sation than  let  me  bring  an  action." 

"Suppose  they  won't?" 

"Then  I  shall  go  to  a  good  solicitor,  bring  my  action, 
and  most  certainly  win  it.  If  you  had  served  on  as 
many  juries  as  I  have  you  would  know  that  a  jury  will 
always,  where  possible  (and  sometimes  where  impos- 


198        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

sible),  give  a  verdict  for  an  individual  against  a  com- 
pany." 

"And  about  the  dog-bites?" 

"They  are  also  blanks.  I  mark  down  houses  where 
noisy,  snappy  little  beasts  are  kept  as  watch-dogs; 
then  I  dress  myself  to  look  as  nearly  as  possible  as  if 
I  were  making  twenty-four  shillings  a  week.  I  take 
a  stick  and  wait  until  one  of  those  dogs  runs  out.  Then 
I  irritate  it — it  barks  and  growls.  I  keep  it  off  me  with 
the  stick,  go  up  to  the  front  door  and  ring ;  then  I  say 
that  I  have  been  bitten  by  the  dog.  I  do  not  ask  for 
compensation — I  say  that  I  am  going  to  prosecute, 
and  want  to  know  the  name  of  the  people  who  live 
there.  The  lady  of  the  house  (I  never  call  when  the 
man's  at  home)  generally  begs  me  to  accept  compensa- 
tion. I  grumble,  but  consent.  The  compensation  runs 
from  ten  to  thirty  shillings,  and  I  can  get  six  dog-bites 
in  a  morning.  It  is  not  a  bad  branch  of  the  blanking 
business." 

"What  do  you  do,  if  the  lady  wants  to  see  the  bite?" 

"She  very  rarely  does.  If  she  does,  I  always  paint 
a  dog-bite  on  my  left  calf  before  I  start  out  to  work, 
and  I  can  show  her  that.  I  can  paint  a  very  decent 
dog-bite.  But  we  are  getting  into  Vauxhall,  and  I 
must  say  good-bye.  Charmed  to  have  met  you  once 
more.  Now  for  the  accident." 

In  a  moment  he  was  gone.  With  his  hat-box  in  one 
hand  and  his  bundle  of  rugs  in  the  other,  he  had  fallen 
out  through  the  door.  I  saw  a  crowd  gather  round 
him.  I  saw  them  carrying  his  apparently  senseless 
form  into  a  waiting-room,  and  then  the  train 
moved  off. 


THE  BLANKING  BUSINESS         199 

I  saw  him  a  third  and  last  time.  It  was  some  little 
time  afterwards,  and  again  it  was  in  a  railway  car- 
riage. He  entered  my  compartment  and  greeted  me  in 
his  usual  pleasant,  courteous  manner.  But  I  thought 
he  looked  less  cheerful  than  before.  I  asked  him  why 
he  remained  standing,  instead  of  sitting  down!  "Is  it 
part  of  the  blanking  business?" 

"It  is  connected  with  it,"  he  said. 

"How  about  that  accident  of  yours  at  Vauxhall? 
Was  it  a  success?" 

"Complete.  You  see,  I  know  how  to  fall;  and,  be- 
sides, that  bundle  of  rugs  comes  in  very  usefully.  You 
must  really  let  me  show  you  the'  trick  of  it  one  of 
these  days,  as  you  are  good  enough  to  be  interested 
in  it." 

"And  the  railway  company?" 

"They  were  most  reasonable — treated  me  in  a  lib- 
eral spirit  that  I  appreciated  fully." 

"How  about  the  dog-bites  in  the  country  ?" 

"Not  quite  so  successful.  I  made  between  six  and 
seven  pounds  the  first  day  with  blank  dog-bites.  But 
on  the  next,  as  I  was  keeping  a  nasty  little  terrier  off 
in  front,  a  St.  Bernard  came  up  behind — and — well, 
that  particular  dog-bite  wasn't  a  blank." 

"And  are  you  going  back  to  sit  on  juries?" 

"No,"  he  said,  rather  sadly,  "I  shouldn't  care  for 
any  sedentary  work  just  now." 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  take  to  the  blanking  business 
myself.  It  seems  to  have  drawbacks.  I  must  content 
myself  with  a  career  of  modest  and  unsensational  hon- 
esty. But  I  could  not  persuade  the  pleasant-looking 
young  man  to  give  the  thing  up.  On  the  contrary,  he 
told  me  that  he  was  about  to  take  up  with  a  little  blank 


200         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

sanitary  inspecting.  It  is  simple.  You  get  admission 
to  a  house  as  a  sanitary  inspector,  and  you  leave  it 
with  anything  you  can  pick  up.  He  has  a  plausible 
manner,  and  I  recommend  householders  to  be  on  their 
guard. 


XIX 

THE  CHEAT 

MRS.  INGELBY  and  her  niece  lived  at  The 
White  House  in  the  middle  of  the  village  High 
Street;  but  the  house  stood  far  back  from  the  street, 
with  a  walled  garden  shaded  by  many  shrubberies  in 
front  of  it.  Mrs.  Ingelby  loved  shade  and  privacy. 
For  this  reason  she  would  have  built  herself  a  house 
further  away  from  the  village,  were  it  not  that 
she  liked  one  thing  better  still,  and  this  was  the  thing 
to  which  she  had  always  been  used.  She  had  been 
born  in  The  White  House,  and  she  would  die  in  it. 
In  the  course  of  nature  this  would  happen  in  a  few 
years,  for  she  was  of  a  great  age. 

This  night,  in  the  drawing-room,  a  rather  elderly 
maid — she  had  been  with  Mrs.  Ingelby  for  the  last 
twenty  years — lit  the  wax  candles  on  the  card-table, 
and  put  the  new  packs  in  their  appointed  order  with 
the  whist-markers.  This  was  in  the  days  before  the 
world  knew  bridge,  and  Mrs.  Ingelby  would  have 
scorned  to  learn  it  in  any  case.  She  had  always  played 
whist,  and  therefore  she  would  continue  to  play  it. 
Her  game  had  no  modern  innovations  in  it,  was  fairly 
sound,  but  far  from  being  perfect.  She  preferred  a 
"dummy"  game,  and  always  took  dummy  herself. 
"Then,"  she  said,  "there  can  be  no  discussions."  She 
knew  her  own  weakness.  In  the  course  of  her  whist 

201 


202         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

experience  there  had  been  some  very  emphatic  discus- 
sions, and  she  herself  had  done  most  of  the  discussing. 

Her  husband,  a  man  of  mild  and  forbearing  temper, 
would  stick  with  a  plaintive  obstinacy  to  his  side  of 
the  question.  His  last  words  before  he  died  were: 
"Admitting  that  I  did  not  see  the  call,  my  dear,  I 
must  still  maintain  that  it  was  highly  injudicious  in 
you  to  call  at  all."  Her  last  words  to  him  were :  "Stuff 
and  nonsense !" 

She  mourned  his  death  in  solitude  for  many  months, 
and  then  her  niece  Marjory  came  to  live  with  her. 
Marjory  said  that  she  wished  to  play  whist.  Mrs.  In- 
gelby  hesitated.  Was  it  decent?  As  she  was  doing  it 
merely  to  oblige  the  child,  she  decided  that  it  was  de- 
cent. She  sent  for  the  doctor  to  dine  with  her  that 
night,  and  played  whist  afterwards  until  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  She  won  ninepence,  and  went  to  bed  tri- 
umphant. After  that,  the  question  of  propriety  was 
not  raised  again,  and  there  was  a  whist  party  every 
week.  There  was  always  someone  in  the  village  who 
could  be  asked  to  make  a  third  at  the  table.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  she  would  far  sooner  have  played  with  her 
own  butler  than  not  have  played  at  all.  In  the  game  of 
cards  her  youth  was  renewed.  The  struggle  for  life 
was  all  over  with  her  now,  and  she  was  in  a  quiet  back- 
water of  old  age  without  temptations  or  ambitions, 
with  no  risks  to  take,  and  with  nothing  to  scheme  over. 
At  the  card-table  the  delightful  struggle  began  again — 
she  was  once  more  in  the  full  current,  triumphing  or 
vanquished. 

Mrs.  Ingelby  walked  with  some  slight  difficulty,  but 
without  further  support  than  her  stick,  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, followed  by  Marjory  and  the  vicar.  Mrs. 
Ingelby  wore  black  silk  and  no  jewels.  She  might 


THE  CHEAT  203 

have  exchanged  the  lace  on  her  dress  for  diamonds, 
and  got  some  very  fair  diamonds  for  it,  but  she  loved 
lace,  and  accused  precious  stones  of  vulgarity.  Mar- 
jory, a  girl  of  eighteen,  wore  gray  and  looked  demure, 
but  with  humorous  possibilities  about  her.  She  was 
quite  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village,  and  fully  aware 
of  it.  The  vicar,  who  came  last,  was  a  pleasant  and 
scholarly  man.  He  preached  good  sermons  and  he 
liked  good  port.  As  an  angler,  his  fame  was  great: 
the  trout  they  had  been  eating  at  dinner  had  been  the 
victims  of  his  skill. 

"How  would  it  be,"  said  Mrs.  Ingelby,  as  if  she 
were  making  an  entirely  new  proposition,  "if  I  were  to 
take  dummy?" 

The  idea  was  well  received,  as  usual.  "Then,"  said 
Mrs.  Ingelby,  as  the  maid  placed  the  cushions  in  her 
chair  for  her,  "shall  we  say  threepenny  points?" 

It  was,  and  had  always  been,  threepenny  points ;  but 
it  was  just  as  well  to  mention  it  in  case  of  accidents. 

"Jane,  have  you  placed  the  ash-tray  and  match-box 
for  Mr.  Vaughan  ?"  Jane  had,  and  having  for  the  mo- 
ment done  all  that  she  could  do,  Jane  retired,  not  to 
reappear  until  ten  o'clock,  when  she  brought  in  a  tray, 
and  Mrs.  Ingelby  took  one  glass  of  very  weak  whisky 
and  soda,  always  under  protest.  These  little  things 
were  arranged  and  fixed.  The  vicar  and  Marjory  and 
Jane  all  knew  their  parts. 

And  now  a  silence  reigned,  and  the  battle  raged  on 
the  green  cloth.  But  to-night  it  could  hardly  be  called 
a  battle.  The  vicar  and  Marjory  held  all  the  cards. 
Mrs.  Ingelby  struggled  hard  but  ineffectually;  no 
amount  of  skill  could  have  saved  her  from  defeat. 

There  was  a  pause  at  the  end  of  the  first  rubber. 

"The  cards  have  been  remarkable,"  said  Mrs.  In- 


204         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

gelby,  "very  remarkable.  Very  remarkable,  indeed. 
This  kind  of  thing  cannot  possibly  continue,  and  so 
decided  an  inequality  of  fortune  deprives  the  game  of 
much  of  its  interest,  to  my  mind." 

"Well,  now,  your  revenge?"  said  Mr.  Vaughan. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ingelby,  "I  think  there  will  be  time 
for  it ;  and,  as  I  said,  luck  like  yours  cannot  last.  Two 
trebles  and  the  rub.  I  think  that's  right.  Marjory,  it 
is  your  deal." 

Then  the  terrible  thing  happened.  Halfway  through 
Marjory's  deal  Mrs.  Ingelby  stood  up.  "We  will  not 
continue  this  game,"  she  said.  "I  am  afraid  I  must 
believe  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes.  You  are  not 
dealing  fairly.  You  are  cheating!" 

"Impossible!"  said  the  vicar. 

Marjory  only  said  that  she  was  sorry,  and  blushed 
slightly. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ingelby  to  Marjory,  "you  had 
better  leave  us.  Go  to  your  own  room." 

Without  a  word  Marjory  went  out.  It  was  ex- 
tremely embarrassing  for  the  vicar.  He  also  had  risen 
to  go. 

"Pray  sit  down  again,"  said  Mrs.  Ingelby.  "This  is 
a  serious  matter.  I  hardly  know  what  I  should  do." 

"Can't  understand  it,"  said  the  vicar.  "The  girl 
wasn't  playing  for  points;  and  even  if  she  had  been,  it 
was  only  the  other  day  that  you  complained  that  she 
gave  away  her  money  as  fast  as  she  got  it.  Surely 
you  must  have  made  some  mistake !" 

"I  made  none.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  she  did  not 
deny  it,  I  felt  pretty  sure  that  she  had  neutralized  the 
cut.  I  know  something  of  conjuring  tricks  myself. 
At  each  round  my  card  fell  from  the  bottom  of  the 
pack,  and  not  from  the  top.  It  was  done  fairly  well, 


THE  CHEAT  205 

and  quickly;  but  not  quickly  enough  to  deceive  my 
eyes,  old  though  they  are." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  vicar.  "It  must 
have  been  done  for  a  joke.  I  should  say  no  more 
about  it." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Mrs.  Ingelby,  "I  shall  say  a 
great  deal  more  about  it.  I  trust  that  it  was  only  a 
joke;  but  Marjory  must  be  made  to  understand  that 
there  are  some  subjects  that  do  not  admit  of  jokes,  and 
that  whist  is  one  of  them." 

And  then  a  tray  was  brought  in,  and  Mrs.  Ingelby 
said  that  she  would  not  have  any,  thank  you ;  and  Mr. 
Vaughan  mixed  it  for  her. 

One  afternoon  in  the  following  week  Marjory  called 
at  the  Vicarage.  Could  the  vicar  come  over  and  dine 
that  night  and  play  whist  afterwards  ? 

"Certainly!"  said  the  vicar.  "Delighted.  Many 
thanks.  And  are  you  going  to  be  allowed  to  be  one  of 
the  whist  party,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said.    "I  am  entirely  forgiven." 

"Look  here!"  said  the  vicar.  "I  am  not  a  curious 
man,  as  a  rule,  but  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  on  earth 
you  did  it  for.  By  the  way,  I  must  return  to  your 
aunt  the  points  that  I  received  over  that  first  rubber. 
I  had  forgotten  that." 

"Oh,  no,  you  mustn't!"  said  Marjory.  "I  never 
cheated  at  all  in  the  first  rubber." 

"Well,"  said  the  vicar,  "this  beats  me.  The  luck 
was  all  with  us,  and  you  were  doing  splendidly.  Why 
on  earth  should  you ?" 

"Don't  you  see?"  Marjory  broke  in.  "It  was  be- 
cause the  luck  was  all  on  our  side.  She  manages  her- 
self beautifully,  and  doesn't  complain  much;  but  if  she 


206         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

hasn't  won  a  game  all  the  evening,  she  is  perfectly  mis- 
erable, and  doesn't  sleep  all  night.  I  was  giving  her 
the  loveliest  hand  when  she  found  me  out.  Spades 
would  have  been  the  trumps,  and  she  had  the  four  hon- 
ors and  a  little  one,  and  a  long  suit  in  diamonds.  I 
have  done  it  before  often,  and  have  never  been  found 
out." 

"Well,  you  must  have  made  your  partner  lose  three- 
pences." 

"Yes,"  said  Marjory  cheerfully.  "That  doesn't  mat- 
ter a  bit,  does  it?  Whereas,  if  old  ladies  get  upset  and 
can't  sleep,  that  is  very  bad  for  their  health." 

"And,  naturally,  when  you  told  her  this,  she  forgave 
you?" 

Marjory's  eyes  opened  wide.  "Told  her  it?  Told 
her  that  she'd  been  treated  as  a  child  and  allowed  to 
win?  How  could  I,  or  anyone  else,  be  so  cruel?  You 
must  never  breathe  a  \vord  of  it  to  her.  I  found  she 
had  decided  to  take  it  merely  as  a  stupid  joke,  and  to 
imagine  that  when  the  game  was  over  I  had  intended 
to  own  up,  anyhow.  So  that  was  how  I  left  it." 

"So  you  ask  a  man  in  my  position  to  assist  you  in 
this  fraud?" 

"It's  a  pious  fraud,"  said  Marjory. 

"Well,  possibly  I  may.     But  what  about  to-night?" 

"To-night,"  said  Marjory,  "will  be  just  like  the  other 
nights.  I  shall  play  fairly  for  the  first  rubber.  If  my 
aunt  loses  that,  I  think  her  luck's  very  likely  to  improve 
afterwards.  There  are  lots  of  ways  of  doing  it,  and 
I  have  been  taught  them  all." 

"Then,"  said  the  vicar,  "you're  a  card-sharper,  my 
dear;  but  I  believe  you're  not  such  a  bad  sort  of  girl, 
in  spite  of  it." 


XX 

THE  DIFFICULT  CASE 

A  DUOLOGUE  FOR  ONE  PERSON 

CT'HE  two  persons  of  the  Dialogue  are  the  PATIENT 
-*•  and  the  DOCTOR.  The  part  of  the  PATIENT  is 
played  in  the  usual  way.  The  DOCTOR  has  no  actual 
representative  on  the  stage:  he  is  supposed  to  be  pres- 
ent, and  is  supposed  to  speak:  the  vividness  with  which 
he  is  realised  will  depend  on  the  skill  of  the  Actor  who 
plays  the  PATIENT.  In  the  programmes  the  part  is  as- 
signed to  the  imagination  of  the  audience. 

The  scene  is  the  Library  of  a  Country  House.  The 
Time  is  the  Morning. 

The  PATIENT  is  seated  at  the  writing-table  in  the 
Library.  He  is  a  young  man,  tanned,  of  healthy  ap- 
pearance, but  a  little  worried  and  distraught  in  man- 
ner. He  is  writing  as  the  Curtain  rises. 

THE  PATIENT. 
"Whene'er  I  gaze  on  Celia's  golden  locks " 

Now  that's  not  at  all  a  bad  line,  and  runs  you 
straight  on  into  the  next : 

"Whene'er  I  gaze  on  Celia's  golden  locks, 

I  simply  feel  I " 

207 


208         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

M'yes.  I  thought  the  pace  was  a  bit  too  good  to 
last.  Golden  locks.  Let's  see.  Locks,  crocks,  fox, 
socks.  No  go.  "Whene'er  I  gaze  on — "  Oh,  d ! 

(He  flings  down  his  pen  and  rises  from  the  table.) 

Yes,  and  what  am  I  doing  it  for  ?  Same  thing  came 
over  me  yesterday  and  the  day  before.  (Draws  papers 
from  his  pocket.)  "My  Heart's  Idol" — six  verses. 
"To  Celia's  Eyes" — seventeen  verses.  And  I'm  sup- 
posed to  be  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  If  my  man 
found  these  when  he  was  brushing  my  clothes,  or  if 
anyone  in  the  regiment  got  to  hear  of  it — well,  I 
should  simply  have  to  leave  the  country.  A  mere  girl 
could  never  have  that  effect  on  me :  not  if  I  were  well. 
(Glances  at  his  watch.)  I  only  hope  that  when  he 
does  come  he  won't  be  afraid  to  speak  out,  as  some 
doctors  are.  Even  if  it's  anything  mental,  I'd  sooner 
know  it.  But  it  seems  a  bit  rough.  All  these  years 
I've  done  my  duty.  (A  pause.)  Well,  more  or  less. 
At  any  rate,  I've  never  written  a  line  of  anything  that 
could  be  called  poetry,  and  now  it's  just  as  if  I  couldn't 

keep  off  it.  Let's  see.  "Whene'er  I  gaze  on " 

Ah!  that's  got  it. 

The  PATIENT  on  his  way  to  the  writing-table  is  ar- 
rested by  opening  of  door  C  at  imaginary  entry  of  the 
DOCTOR,  and  goes  quickly  up  to  it.  The  PATIENT 
closes  the  door,  goes  through  business  of  shaking 
hands,  comes  down,  places  two  chairs  and  takes  one, 
talking  as  he  does  so. 

(The  points  at  which  the  DOCTOR  is  supposed  to 
speak  are  indicated  by  asterisk  lines.) 

Good  morning,  Doctor.  This  is  very  good  of  you. 
So  you  got  my  message  all  right — I  hate  these  beastly 
telephones  myself.  Well,  won't  you  sit  down? 


THE  DIFFICULT  CASE  209 

It  is,  indeed.  Mind,  it  looked  a  bit  like  rain  this 
morning  early.  Still,  you  couldn't  want  a  finer  day 
than  it  is  now. 


Yes,  I  know  I  ought  to  be  out  with  the  others.  But 
my  shooting's  gone  right  off.  Yesterday  I  was  per- 
fectly ashamed  of  myself.  But  then  that's  only  one 
symptom  out  of  many.  In  fact,  that's  why  I  asked 
you  to  come  round.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  exactly 
what  the  trouble  is. 


No,  I  dare  say  I  don't  look  ill,  but  you  doctors  know 
that  one  can't  go  much  by  looks. 


The  other  symptoms?  Well,  there  are  lots  of  'em. 
The  worst  is  a  kind  of  unsettled  feeling.  What  I 
mean  is  this:  when  I  ought  to  be  thinking  about 
other  things,  I'm  not.  See  ? 


Well,  I  don't  know  how  else  to  put  it.  The  kind  of 
thing  that  makes  you  forget  which  suit  your  partner 
discarded.  Then,  my  sleep's  not  as  good  as  it  was. 
My  appetite's  falling  off,  too. 


210        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Now,  that's  a  funny  question.  How  am  I  to  re- 
member what  I  had  for  breakfast  this  morning?  Let's 
see.  Grilled  sole.  Couple  of  eggs.  Curry — not  much 
curry. 


No,  nothing  else.  Well,  yes,  a  bit  of  cold  grouse. 
Not  the  whole  bird,  mind.  Of  course,  you  don't  count 
toast,  and  marmalade,  and  things  like  that? 


I  don't  see  that  at  all.  I  didn't  say  that  my  appetite 
had  gone  altogether.  I  said  it  was  falling  off.  So  it 
is.  At  the  present  moment,  for  instance,  I've  no  in- 
clination for  food. 


Certainly.  Show  you  it  with  pleasure.  (Puts  out 
his  tongue.)  I  should  tell  you,  perhaps,  that  I've  no 
actual  pain.  Still,  I  suppose  there  could  be  some  in- 
sidious form  of  indigestion,  when  a  chap  might  not 
know 


What?  Tongue's  all  right,  is  it ?  That  seems  queer. 
You'd  like  to  feel  my  pulse.  (Holds  out  his  wrist.) 
I  dare  say  you'll  find  it  racing  a  bit.  The  feeling  I've 
got  is  rather  on  the  feverish  side.  Ah!  the  pulse 
soon  tells,  don't  it?  I  know  a  man  who 


THE  DIFFICULT  CASE  211 

What?  You  surprise  me.  Absolutely  normal?  Is 
it,  indeed? 

*         ***** 

Oh,  no.    Of  course,  if  you  say  so,  I  believe  ft. 

*T»  5p  *£  *T*  *t*  * 

No. 
****** 

Not  at  all. 

^K         *K         *K         *T*         1^         *(* 

Never  in  my  life. 

Oh,  come,  Doctor,  it's  rather  early  to  say  that,  isn't 
it  ?  I  guessed  that  my  case  was  a  pretty  difficult  one. 
I  realized  that  there  might  be  complications.  I  never 
supposed  that  you'd  be  able  to — er — give  it  a  name  all 
in  a  minute.  But  to  turn  round  and  tell  me  I'm  per- 
fectly well — that's  simply  running  away  from  it.  Why 
don't  you  ask  me  more  questions  ?  You've  got  a  steth- 
oscope— why  don't  you  examine  my  heart? 


Very  likely.  Still,  it  would  relieve  my  anxiety  if 
you  did.  (Takes  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat.)  And  I'll 
tell  you  why — I've  thought  all  along  that  this  might  be 
some  subtle,  masked  form  of  brain-mischief. 


212        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Yes,  I  know  perfectly  well  that  my  brain's  not  in 
my  chest — why,  that's  one  of  the  things  you  learn  at 
school.  All  the  same,  everything's  connected  with 
everything  else,  ain't  it  ? 


Very  well,  I  promise  you.  If  you  find  my  heart's 
all  right,  I  won't  bother  you  any  more,  and  I'll  take 
your  word  for  it  there's  nothing  the  matter.  Now 
then,  how  do  I  stand?  Like  this?  Right.  (Business 
of  stethoscoping.) 


What?  Well,  you  haven't  taken  long  about  it. 
(Putting  on  coat  and  waistcoat,  as  if  rejecting  offer  of 
assistance. )  Thanks,  I  can  manage. 

Well,  I  must  keep  my  word.  It's  a  bit  disappoint- 
ing. I  did  think  that  with  a  stethoscope  you  would 
have  found  something,  if  you'd  been  really  trying. 
However,  I  won't  bother  you  any  more.  Of  course,  if 
for  your  own  satisfaction  you  said  you'd  like  to  take 
my  temperature,  I  shouldn't 


Remind  you  of  what? 


Lady  Caroline  and  the  thermometer  —  no,  I  never 
heard  that  one.    Come  on.    Let's  have  it. 


THE  DIFFICULT  CASE  213 

Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense!  I  shan't  tell  anybody,  and 
you  needn't  give  the  real  names.  Besides,  I  haven't 
heard  a  really  good  yarn  for  weeks.  You  positively 
must.  Ah,  that's  right. 

(He  draws  his  chair  closer.    Listening  attitude.) 


All  right.    Call  him  anything  —  call  him  Smith. 
I  see. 

Yes,  yes. 
****** 

But  what  had  she  done  with  the  other  one? 


(Roars  of  laughter.) 

Oh,  that's  good.  That's  one  of  the  best.  That's 
absolutely  perfect.  (With  sudden  seriousness.)  But, 
Doctor,  you  know,  this  sort  of  depression  of  mine  is 
no  laughing  matter. 


Yes,  that's  true.  I  hadn't  meant  to  allude  to  it  again. 
But  I  don't  like  to  leave  it  like  this.  You  see,  you 
haven't  even  suggested  anything. 


214        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Come,  now,  that's  better.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  a 
tonic  did  me  a  lot  of  good.  You'd  like  to  write  the 
prescription;  you'll  find  ink  and  everything  here. 

(Business  of  establishing  the  DOCTOR  at  the  writing- 
table.  PATIENT  leaves  him:  then  turns  sharply.) 


What  ?     "Whene'er  I  gaze  on  Celia's "     Good 

Lord !  I'd  forgotten  I  left  it  there.  All  right,  Doctor. 
I  admit  it.  I  did  it.  It's  my  poetry.  No  one  is  to 
blame  but  myself. 


Depends  what  you  mean  by  "going  on  for  long." 
It's  been  going  on  ever  since  I  met  her.  (Draws  paper 
from  his  pocket.)  This  is  one  I  did  yesterday.  It's 
called  "To  Celia's  Eyes."  I'll  read  you  some  of  it: 
"Whene'er  I  gaze  on  Celia's " 

****** 

No,  it's  not  at  all  the  same  as  the  one  you've  got 
there.  It's  only  that  there's  a  bit  of  a  coincidence 
about  the  first  lines.  This  one  is  much  more  finished : 

"Whene'er  I  gaze  on  Celia's  lovely  eyes, 
They  always  seem  to  take  me  by  surprise. 
They  are  as  blue  as  is  the  sky  above, 
And  enough  to  make  any  man  feel  the  power  of " 


THE  DIFFICULT  CASE  215 

All  right  ;  if  you  don't  want  to  hear  it,  you  needn't. 


Yes;  I  admit  I  ought  to  have  told  you  about  it  be- 
fore. It's  a  mistake  to  have  any  secrets  from  one's 
doctor.  But  I  have  no  wish  to  be  regarded  as  a  poet. 
It  would  ruin  me  in  my  career.  I  depend  upon  your 
professional  discretion. 


I've  no  doubt  it  would  make  a  very  good  story.  So 
did  Lady  Caroline  and  the  thermometer.  A  little  mu- 
tual forbearance,  eh? 


Then,  that's  settled. 
****** 

You  surprise  me.  I'd  no  idea  you  would  regard 
these  poems  as  symptomatic.  Then  you  know  what 
my  disease  is.  Tell  me  quickly,  Doctor.  Whatever  it 
is,  I  can  bear  it. 

****** 

I'm  in  love,  am  I?  Yes,  I'd  been  half  afraid  of  it. 
Doctor,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Is  there  any  certain  cure 
for  love? 

****** 


216         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

There  is?    What  is  it? 
****** 

It's  all  very  well  to  say  Matrimony,  but  how's  a 
man  like  myself  to  get  there?  I'm  nothing  to  look 
at.  Intellect,  I  should  say,  very  little  above  the  aver- 
age. No  particular  position. 


Yes ;  but  there  are  three  good  lives  between  me  and 
that.  Besides,  there  is  the  girl  herself  to  be  considered. 
I  suppose  you  don't  know  who  the  girl  is  ? 


How  on  earth  did  you  know? 


Of  course.     The  names  on  the  poems.     What  a 
Sherlock  Holmes  you  are! 


Everybody  knows  it!  Somehow,  I  always  seem  to 
be  the  last  person  to  hear  of  anything.  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  even  if  I  were  the  Emperor  of  Timbuctoo,  it 
wouldn't  be  much  good  if  the  girl  had  taken  a  dislike 
to  me.  Now,  I'll  give  you  an  instance.  I  told  her 
that  I  should  stop  in  this  morning,  and  rather  hinted 
that  she  might  do  the  same.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Wouldn't 
hear  of  it.  She  was  going  with  the  rest. 


THE  DIFFICULT  CASE  217 

What's  that? 


Just  as  you  came  in  ?  Why  on  earth  can't  girls  say 
what  they  really  mean?  Whereabout  in  the  garden 
was  she? 


Why,  that's  just  by  this  window.  What  a  lot  of 
time  I  have  been  wasting ! 

(He  goes  to  the  window'). 

Yes,  there  she  is,  reading  some  rotten  book.  If 
she'd  only  look  up — ah! 

(He  smiles  and  waves  his  hand,  and  returns  hur- 
riedly to  the  DOCTOR.  ) 

Doctor,  I  can't  thank  you  enough.  You've  done  me 
a  lot  of  good.  Now  I  positively  must  not  waste  one 
more  moment  of  your  time.  I  know  how  valuable  it  is. 
Sure  you  won't  have  a  cigar  to  smoke  on  your  way 
back? 

****** 

No,  don't  bother  about  the  prescription.  That  will 
be  all  right.  And,  I  say,  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  don't 
see  you  further  than  this  door  ?  You  know  your  way, 
of  course.  The  fact  is,  that  this  is  rather  a  busy 
morning  with  me.  See  you  on  Wednesday  at  the  golf 
— I've  got  a  rotten  handicap  myself.  Many  thanks, 
again.  Good-bye. 


218        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

(Business  of  shaking  hands.  The  PATIENT  opens 
and  closes  door  C.  Then  goes  quickly  to  the  window 
and  calls  down. ) 

I  say,  should  I  be  too  much  of  an  interruption? 
Thanks,  awfully.  I'll  jump  for  it. 


XXI 

SOME  IMITATIONS 


MY  cousin  Elsa  is  the  despair  of  her  mother  and 
the  ecstasy  of  every  artist  who  beholds  her. 
Men  adore  her  until  they  know  her,  and  she  has  the 
longest  list  of  broken  engagements  of  any  woman  in 
London.  She  has  great  charm  and  a  system  of  ethics 
of  which  an  ordinary  house-breaker  or  card-sharper 
would  be  heartily  ashamed. 

When  she  called  on  me  at  twelve  in  the  morning, 
thereby  interrupting  my  work,  and  observed  that 
friendship  was  a  lost  art,  I  naturally  asked  who  he 
was. 

"If  you  wouldn't  keep  on  trying  to  be  clever,"  said 
Elsa,  "it  would  be  much  better.  There  is  no  man  in 
the  case  at  all  this  time.  Besides,  if  it  had  been  any 
trouble  with  a  man  in  it  I  could  probably  have  ar- 
ranged it  myself.  I've  often  done  so  before." 

"You  have  ?"  I  said.  "Well,  what  is  the  trouble  this 
time?" 

"Suppose  I  asked  you  to  go  to  Mrs.  Talford  Green's 
on  Wednesday  night?" 

"I  should  say  I  was  awfully  sorry,  but  that  I  was 
too  busy  and  too  old  for  that  kind  of  thing.  I  should 
add,  in  a  humble  style,  that  you  would  find  many  other 
men  there,  and  I  should  only  be  in  your  way." 

219 


220        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Elsa  stamped  her  foot  impatiently.  "Once  more, 
don't  be  clever.  Don't  jump  to  conclusions.  I  never 
said  I  was  going,  did  I  ?  I'm  not.  I  don't  go  to  every 
blessed  thing  I'm  asked  to." 

"Don't  brag.  I  know  you  too  well,  and  it's  no 
good.  You  go  to  Mrs.  Talford  Green's  whenever  you 
get  the  chance,  and  are  thankful.  And  why  on  earth 
am  I  to  go  if  you  don't  intend  to  be  there?" 

"I  particularly  want  you  to  meet  Irma  Morrice." 

"Why?  I've  met  her  scores  of  times.  I  know  she's 
your  dearest  friend,  and  absolutely  delightful  and  per- 
fectly ducksy,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  All  the  same,  if 
we  don't  meet  on  Wednesday  night  neither  of  us  will 
die  of  it" 

"Did  I  say  she  was  my  dearest  friend?  She  is  a 
friend,  of  course,  in  a  way,  and  I  wouldn't  say  a  word 
against  her." 

"Let's  have  the  word,  then." 

"More  cleverness !  Why  don't  you  keep  it  for  those 
little  penny  stories  that  you  write?  Irma's  pretty,  of 
course,  and  I  dare  say  she  will  learn  >how  her  hair 
ought  to  be  done  one  of  these  days.  It's  not  her  fault 
that  she's  got  no  money,  and  I  always  wondered  how 
she  managed  to  dress  so  well  on  it  until  I  heard  about 
the  Exchange.  She  doesn't  dress  really  well,  of  course, 
and  she  has  the  finest  luck  at  bridge  I  ever  came  across 
in  my  life,  if  it  is  simply  luck.  And  I  hope  it  is,  of 
course." 

"Yes,  that  all  sounds  very  nice.  And  why  do  you 
want  me  to  meet  her?" 

"You  really  ought  to  go  out  a  great  deal  more  than 
you  do.  If  you  don't  study  life,  how  can  you  write 
about  it  properly?  I  heard  someone  say  the  other 


SOME  IMITATIONS  221 

day  that  you  were  the  kindest  and  most  chivalrous  of 
men." 

This  was  conclusive.  My  cousin  Elsa  does  not  say 
these  things  for  nothing.  If  she  stroked  a  cat  she 
would  expect  the  animal  to  go  away,  skin  itself,  get 
the  skin  dyed  imitation  mink,  and  send  it  to  her  with 
an  affectionate  message. 

"Evidently,"  I  said,  "you're  in  some  pretty  serious 
trouble." 

She  picked  up  a  little  Italian  looking-glass  and 
peered  into  it  carefully,  and,  as  she  was  surveying  her 
own  face,  found  therein  no  fault  at  all.  "I  want  to 
ask  you  something,"  she  said.  "Suppose  I  got  some- 
body to  lend  me  money  on  some  diamonds.  And — well 
— they  weren't  really  diamonds  ?" 

"A  term  of  imprisonment  with  hard  labor.  You 
ought  to  have  been  either  in  a  prison  or  madhouse 
long  ago.  I've  often  told  you  so.  If  you  want  me  to 
help  you  you  must  put  your  cards  on  the  table  at  any 
rate.  I  must  have  the  whole  story." 

"It  isn't  quite  what  I  said — about  borrowing  the 
money,  I  mean — but  it's  pretty  bad.  If  I  told  mamma 
there'd  be  the  most  awful  row.  I  suppose  I'd  better 
tell  you,  only  you  must  promise  not  to  peach,  and  you 
must  promise  to  get  me  out  of  it.  Take  me  out  to 
lunch  somewhere  and  then  we  can  talk  it  over." 


II 

DURING  luncheon  Elsa  was  appallingly  scandalous  and 
extremely  amusing.  When  lunch  was  over  she  leaned 
forward  confidentially,  one  arm  resting  on  the  table. 


222        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  it.  It's  the  worst 
mess  I  ever  got  into  in  my  life,  and  it's  not  my  fault 
at  all." 

"I  knew  it  wasn't  your  fault,  of  course." 

"Do  you  remember  that  little  diamond  pendant  that 
Uncle  Harry  gave  me?" 

"No." 

"You  wouldn't.  You  never  see  anything.  I've  got 
it  on  now.  Look.  Well,  you  know  the  way  that 
women  will  go  mad  on  some  particular  piece  of  jew- 
elry. Irma  Morrice  went  mad  on  my  pendant.  I  be- 
lieve she  half  thought  I  might  give  it  her  one  day  when 
I  had  got  tired  of  it.  I  couldn't  do  that,  because  it  was 
a  present  from  dear  Uncle  Harry.  Besides,  I  took  it 
to  a  jeweller  the  day  he  gave  it  to  me,  and  the  man 
said  it  was  worth  at  least  fifty  pounds." 

"Pleasant  little  trick  of  yours." 

"Don't  interrupt.  One  day  I  was  going  down  Bond 
Street  and  I  came  across  a  pendant  in  a  window  which 
was  the  very  exact  image  of  mine.  I  went  in  and  asked 
to  look  at  it,  and  found  that  the  stones  were  paste,  and 
that  it  wasn't  too  dear.  I  had  to  buy  it  for  safety. 
Otherwise  Irma  might  have  seen  it  and  got  it,  and  I 
hate  to  have  her  wearing  anything  like  anything  that  I 
wear.  That's  natural,  isn't  it?  Then  I  lost  two 
watches  in  one  week,  and  mamma  said  I  ought  to  be 
more  careful.  So  I  thought  that  in  future  I  would 
keep  the  pendant  with  the  real  stones  safely  locked  up 
at  home  and  wear  the  other.  I  only  knew  them  apart 
by  the  fact  that  I  kept  the  real  one  in  a  different  shaped 
box  to  the  other.  Then  one  afternoon  Irma  had  got  a 
bridge-party,  just  a  few  of  us,  all  girls.  I  never  held 
such  absolutely  awful  cards  in  my  life." 


SOME  IMITATIONS  223 

"And,"  I  suggested,  "to  pay  your  losses  you  bor- 
rowed money  on  the  imitation  pendant,  asserting  that 
the  stones  were  real." 

Elsa  was  indignant.  "Not  a  bit.  Do  you  think  I 
would  tell  a  lie  like  that?  And  do  you  think  I  would 
go  into  a  horrible,  dirty,  disgraceful  pawnbroker's  shop 
to  get  money?  Never.  I  would  sooner  owe  any 
amount  than  do  such  a  thing.  What  happened  was 
this  :  I  paid  the  money  at  the  time,  and  then  when  the 
rest  had  gone  I  had  a  few  words  with  Irma.  You  see, 
I  had  to  pay  Mathilde  some  money  next  day  (she's  a 
demon  for  money,  and  if  she  hadn't  got  quite  perfect 
taste,  I'd  leave  her).  So  I  suggested  that  I  should  pay 
the  money  in  a  month's  time,  and  meanwhile  I  would 
let  Irma  wear  my  pendant,  and  I  told  her  that  if  I 
didn't  pay  at  the  end  of  the  month  she  could  keep  it. 
I  didn't  say  'diamond  pendant' — I  simply  said  'pen- 
dant.' And  I  couldn't  help  what  she  thought,  could  I? 
She  jumped  at  it,  so  I  took  it  off  and  gave  it  her." 

"What  were  your  losses  ?" 

"Somewhere  about  ten  pounds." 

"And  you  let  her  believe  that  she  held  as  security  a 
pendant  worth  fifty?" 

"I  couldn't  help  what  she  thought,"  said  Elsa  petu- 
lantly. "I  told  you  that  before." 

"And  what  had  you  actually  paid  for  the  paste  pen- 
dant?" 

"Four  pounds  ten  shillings." 

She  looked  pathetic  and  deeply  wronged  as  she  gave 
me  this  account  of  her  own  dishonorable  and  dis- 
gusting conduct.  If  she  had  not  been  an  irresponsible, 
ignorant,  and  charming  child  I  might  have  been  even 
angrier  with  her.  "Well,"  I  said,  "there  is  only  one 
thing  to  be  done.  I'll  put  you  into  a  hansom,  and  you 


224        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

must  drive  to  the  Morrices'  at  once.  You  will  then 
pay  your  card  debt  to  Irma  and  take  back  your  Brum- 
magem pendant.  And  I  ought  to  tell  your  mother,  and 
you  ought  to  be  well  spanked.  You  can  repay  me  when 
you  have  it." 

"Thanks,"  said  Elsa  sadly,  "it's  awfully  kind  of 
you,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  no  good.  Irma  has  found  me 
out  already,  and  that's  why  I  wanted  you  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Talford  Green's  and  talk  to  her  and  hear  what 
she  meant  to  do,  and  see  if  you  couldn't  make  her 
change  her  mind." 

By  this  time  Elsa  had  got  actual  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Her  appearance  of  being  deeply  injured  by  a  hard  and 
cruel  world  was  so  deceptive  that  it  nearly  took  me  in. 

"How  do  you  know  that  Irma  has  found  you  out?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  The  other  day  I  happened  to  tread  on 
a  brooch  of  mine  and  the  silly  thing  broke;  so  I  took 
it  to  a  very  good  man  I  know  of.  As  I  went  into  the 
shop  I  saw  Irma  standing  at  the  counter,  and  behind 
the  counter  a  shopman  with  that  pendant  of  mine  in 
his  hand.  I'm  not  quite  certain  whether  Irma  saw  me, 
but  I  think  she  did.  I  rushed  out  of  the  shop  at  once. 
That  happened  yesterday.  I  can't  go  on  Wednesday 
night  because  I  simply  can't  meet  her.  I  never  meant 
to  do  any  harm.  I  had  heaps  of  money  coming  at  the 
end  of  the  month,  and  I  was  quite  certain  to  pay  her 
and  take  the  pendant  back  then.  No  harm  would  have 
been  done  at  all  if  she  hadn't  found  me  out.  It  was  a 
suspicious,  low,  catlike  thing  for  her  to  do,  taking  that 
pendant  to  a  jeweller." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'll  do  what  I  can.  Only,  my  dear 
Elsa,  you've  got  to  make  me  a  few  promises." 

They  were  promises  connected  with  her  reformation. 


SOME  IMITATIONS  225 

She  made  them  all  with  the  utmost  willingness  and 
kept  one  or  two  of  them  for  quite  a  long  time. 


in 

I  MET  Miss  Morrice  on  Wednesday  night,  and  I  was 
a  little  puzzled,  for  if  ever  a  woman  looked  the  picture 
of  conscious  guilt  and  horrible  embarrassment,  that 
woman  was  Irma  Morrice.  We  talked  about  nothing 
in  particular  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  parted. 

Later  I  took  Miss  Morrice  down  to  supper.  She 
clearly  had  something  on  her  mind,  and  I  thought  I 
would  give  her  the  weaker  position  by  letting  her 
speak  first. 

She  asked  me  if  Elsa  was  there.  "No,"  I  said, 
"she  told  me  she  wasn't  coming  to-night." 

"Do  you  know  why?" 

"No,"  I  lied. 

"I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  speak  to  me  again.  And 
she  was  quite  my  dearest  friend,  and  I'm  afraid  it's 
partly  my  own  fault." 

"Can't  I  do  anything?"  I  suggested. 

"You  might,  perhaps,  be  able  to  give  her  my  ex- 
planation of  a  thing  that  must  have  looked  perfectly 
horrible.  She  lost  a  little  money  to  me  at  bridge,  and 
as  her  dressmaker  was  bothering  her,  I  wouldn't  take 
it  until  she  got  her  next  quarter's  allowance.  So  she 
insisted  on  my  wearing  a  little  pendant  of  hers  that 
I  admired  until  the  money  was  paid." 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  I  said.  "In  fact,  she  gave 
me  the  money  to  hand  on  to  you  to-night.  But  what's 
the  trouble?" 


226        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Out  of  pure  curiosity  and  nothing  else  I  took  that 
pendant  to  a  jeweller.  I  wanted  to  know  how  much 
it  was  worth.  I  thought  perhaps  I  would  get  one  like 
it  one  day.  As  he  held  it  in  his  hand  Elsa  came  into 
the  shop.  I  could  see  she  was  furious.  She  must 
have  thought  that  I  suspected  her  and  was  getting  the 
thing  valued.  It's  too  horrible  and  sordid." 

"Don't  say  that,"  I  said.  "This  is  a  commercial 
age.  By  the  way,  that  little  pendant  of  hers  is  rather 
good,  isn't  it?" 

"The  man  told  me  he  would  give  me  fifty-two 
pounds  for  it  any  time.  But,  tell  me,  will  you  try  and 
make  it  all  right  with  Elsa?  I  couldn't  bear  to  lose 
her." 

I  said  I  would  do  my  best,  and  I  did. 

Elsa  had,  of  course,  mixed  the  two  pendants,  as 
she  was  bound  to  do.  The  reconciliation  took  place, 
and  Elsa  told  me  all  about  it  afterwards.  She  said 
she  was  very  saintly  and  martyrish  at  the  interview 
between  her  and  Irma,  and  that  she  had  told  Irma 
that  she  had  never  been  angry  with  her — only  pained 
and  grieved.  And  then  Elsa  asked  me  not  to  laugh. 


XXII 
THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP 


THE  Celestial  (this  was  merely  his  nickname), 
having  finished  dinner,  collected  his  faithful 
follower  Smithson.  and  proceeded  down  the  hill  from 
the  schoolhouse  to  Hunley's.  He  paused  several  times 
on  the  way,  once  in  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  make 
a  pug  dog  bite  Smithson,  and  once  in  order  to  make 
Smithson  jump  a  low  stone  wall  by  the  roadside. 
Smithson  was  compelled  to  jump  this  wall  at  intervals 
when  the  Celestial  decided  that  it  was  good  for  him. 
Once  in  every  five  times  Smithson  cleared  the  wall, 
which  was  distinctly  disappointing,  but  the  other  four 
times  he  fell,  and  there  were  few  people  who  could 
get  more  comic  illustration  into  a  fall  than  Smithson. 
This  time  he  was  particularly  good;  in  fact,  the  Ce- 
lestial had  to  climb  up  on  the  wall  and  sit  there  until 
he  had  recovered  himself. 

"I'll  bet  this  is  the  last  time  I   ever  go  at  that 
beastly  thing,"  said  Smithson,  and  he  rubbed  his  shin. 

"So  you  said  before,  my  son.    It  won't  do.    A  chap 
who  can  fall  like  you  ought  to  belong  to  the  nation." 

When  they  reached  Hunley's  the  little  shop  was 
full. 

"Banks,"  said  the  Celestial,  "kindly  step  down  from 
that  throne." 

227 


228        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Banks  was  occupying  the  one  chair  in  the  shop; 
he  got  down  tinder  protest,  and  the  Celestial,  having 
taken  unto  himself  three  raspberry- jam  tartlets  and 
a  stick  of  chocolate,  and  commanded  a  vanilla  ice  to 
be  ready  for  him  the  moment  he  had  finished,  observed 
with  a  deeply  serious  air  that  we  all  ate  and  drank 
far  too  much. 

"Seen  the  'Mag'?"  somebody  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  Celestial. 

"It's  out  this  morning." 

"It  can  stop  out,"  said  the  Celestial.  "I  am  not 
going  to  look  at  it.  It  is  all  run  for  the  sixth  and  the 
masters.  Real  talent  isn't  given  a  chance.  At  any 
rate,  they  chucked  me,"  he  added  modestly. 

There  was  a  general  chorus  of  disbelief  that  the 
Celestial  had  ever  sent  any  contribution  in.  He  had 
many  eccentricities,  but  no  one  had  ever  accused  him 
of  a  literary  turn  of  mind.  Smithson  expressed  a 
decided  opinion  that  the  Celestial  could  not  write 
anything  even  if  he  wanted  to. 

"All  right,  Fathead,"  said  the  Celestial :  "if  I  didn't 
value  this  particular  tartlet  I'd  break  it  over  your 
face.  I  tell  you  I  did  send  something  in,  and  it  did 
get  chucked;  and  if  you  don't  believe  me  you  can  ask 
the  noble  and  scholarly  Pilkington,  who  is  the  editor 
thereof." 

"What  did  you  send  ?"  asked  Smithson. 

"I  sent  a  short  essay  entitled  'Hoppers ;  their  treat- 
ment in  sickness  and  in  health/  ' 

As  the  senior  mathematical  master,  a  man  of  small 
size  and  great  agility,  was  known  throughout  the 
school  as  "The  Hopper,"  the  rejection  of  Cyprian 
Langsdyke's  article  may  be  easily  understood,  quite 
apart  from  any  question  of  its  literary  merits. 


THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP    229 

"If  you  will  kindly  cease  this  unmannerly  and  in- 
tempestive  laughter,"  said  the  Celestial,  with  an  excel- 
lent imitation  of  his  head  master's  manner  of  speech, 
"I  will  give  you  a  few  thoughts  that  have  occurred  to 
me  on  this  subject.  (Fathead,  eat  one  of  these  green 
things  with  the  red  stripe  around  them,  and  tell  me 
if  they're  any  good.)  The  school  magazine  is  rot.  It 
contains  reports  of  concerts  telling  us  how  the  swan- 
like  voice  of  Smithson  was  heard  to  great  advantage; 
it  informs  us  that  the  Rev.  J.  B.  Jiggers" — this  was 
a  purely  imaginary  name — "has  kindly  presented  to 
the  school  library  a  volume  entitled  'What  a  Little 
Girl  can  do';  it  gives  up  poems  by  the  noble  and 
scholarly  Pilkington,  and  it  chucks  a  few  trenchant 
and  witty  remarks  by  the  brutal  and  licentious  Langs- 
dyke."  He  took  his  adjectives  from  the  history  he 
happened  to  be  reading  (under  compulsion)  at  the 
time.  "The  only  thing  that  is  any  good  is  the  match 
scores;  and,  barring  the  out-matches,  we  generally 
know  a  lot  more  about  them  than  the  magazine  does. 
It  has  been  well  observed  by  the  immortal  Lecky,  or 
some  other  bounder,  that  without  competition  trade 
cannot  thrive.  It  is  the  same  thing  here.  What  we 
want  is  an  opposition  magazine  of  our  own,  with  me 
to  edit  it." 

"You'd  never  get  Pilkington  or  any  of  these  chaps 
to  write  for  it,"  said  Banks. 

"Oh,  my  sacred  aunt!"  said  the  Celestial,  "do  you 
think  we  want  Pilkington?  Do  you  think  we  want 
a  yard  and  a  half  of  poetry  called  'Thoughts  on  a 
Summer  Evening'?  Avaunt!  We  don't  want  the 
sixth,  and  we  don't  want  the  masters.  If  they  come 
in  at  all,  they  will  come  in  as  the  subject  of  a  few 
critical  editorial  remarks.  My  magazine  will  be  a 


230        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

society  magazine.  It  will  tell  you  all  the  real  news. 
It  will  show  up  abuses.  It  will  give  character-sketches 
of  great  and  notable  people,  such  as  Henry  Reginald 
Liggers,  M.A.,  likewise  the  Hopper.  It  will  be  in 
manuscript,  and  Smithson  will  have  to  write  it  out. 
Everybody  who  wants  to  read  the  number  will  have 
to  pay  a  penny,  and  the  surplus,  after  paying  ex- 
penses, will  go  to  the  Banana  Society." 

The  Banana  Society  had  also  been  invented  by  the 
Celestial.  Its  aim  was  to  provide  a  small  fund  to 
enable  the  society  to  buy  bananas  in  great  quantities 
when  they  were  two  a  penny.  Such  cheapness  was 
temporary,  and  without  a  fund  full  advantage  could 
not  be  taken  of  it. 

The  discussion  of  the  magazine  continued,  and  vari- 
ous duties  were  assigned.  Banks,  for  instance,  was 
required  to  provide  accurate  information  as  to  all  the 
head  master's  dinner-parties,  including  a  list  of  the 
guests  and  an  exact  transcript  of  the  menu.  Douglas 
was  to  furnish  short  biographies  of  any  visitors  at  the 
schoolhouse. 

"That's  all  very  funny,"  said  Douglas,  "but  how 
am  I  to  get  'em?" 

"That  is  your  look-out,"  said  the  Celestial.  "You've 
got  a  tongue  in  your  head.  'If  you  do  not  see  what 
you  want,  kindly  ask  for  it/  In  that  way  we  shall 
rise  on  stepping-stones  of  our  dead  selves  to  higher 
things,  as  the  josser  remarked  who  did  the  stuff  that 
the  sixth  had  to  cork  into  Elegiacs  this  morning." 

"How  did  you  know?"  asked  Smithson. 

"Because,  Fathead,  I  heard  the  stuff  being  given 
out  to  them." 

"And  that  don't  explain  how  you  remembered  it," 
said  Smithson,  who  never  remembered  anything. 


THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP    231 

"Well,"  said  the  Celestial,  "I  cannot  stop  to  ex- 
plain it  to  you,  because  I  am  just  about  to  give  my 
celebrated  imitation  of  a  lion-hearted  English  school- 
boy cutting  cricket  on  a  beastly  hot  Saturday  after- 
noon, and  getting  a  surreptitious  swim  in  the  river 
Wathy." 

"I'll  come  too,"  said  Smithson. 

"You  will  bet  your  last  boots  you  won't.  As 
Socrates  very  pointedly  observes,  where  one  can  slink 
out  all  right  two  may  be  missed." 


II 

IN  due  course  of  time  "Langsdyke's  Home  Truths" 
made  a  successful  appeal  to  its  limited  public.  The 
method  of  production  was  original,  and  has  not  yet 
been  followed  by  the  bulk  of  the  leading  London 
magazines.  The  Celestial  lay  at  full  length  on  his 
back  on  a  table  in  the  day-room,  having  in  his  hand 
the  rough  pencil-notes  of  news  given  to  him  by  his 
accomplished  staff.  Smithson  knelt  on  the  floor  with 
a  penny  exercise-book  and  his  inkpot  on  a  form  be- 
side him,  and  took  down  the  paragraphs  that  his  editor 
dictated  to  him.  The  magazine  consisted  almost  en- 
tirely of  paragraphs.  The  following  are  some  of  the 
more  elegant  extracts  from  the  first  number : — 

"Anyone  who  is  reading  this  magazine  is  requested 
to  keep  it  in  his  locker  when  he  isn't. 

"We  would  wish  to  ask,  as  a  matter  of  public  in- 
terest, whether  the  pro.  is  not  intended  to  coach  the 
eleven,  and  if  it  is  necessary  for  him  to  waste  half 
an  hour  every  day  sending  easy  ones  down  for  the 
Hopper  to  hit,  so  that  he  may  fancy  himself. 


232         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"We  are  informed  by  the  Secretary  of  the  Banana 
Society  that  the  price  of  this  fine  and  succulent  fruit 
at  Mr.  Stanforth's  emporium  is  now  i^d.  each.  They 
are  pretty  big  ones,  but  that  does  not  excuse  it.  It 
is  a  great  pity  that  chaps  with  more  money  than  brains 
should  encourage  it  by  buying  them.  It  would  show 
more  public  spirit  if  we  all  held  aloof,  and  then,  when 
they  all  began  to  go  brown,  old  Stan  forth  would  have 
to  climb  down  a  bit.  Bananas  of  this  size  at  2  for  id., 
even  if  they  had  begun  to  go  a  little,  would  be  emi- 
nently desirable. 

"General  Mayne  (or  Mayner)  has  been  stopping  at 
the  schoolhouse.  He  took  lunch  at  the  school  dinner 
yesterday,  and  sat  next  to  the  noble  and  scholarly 
Pilkington.  We  are  given  to  understand  that  the 
gallant  general  was  something  or  other  in  Afghanis- 
tan. The  remaining  details  of  his  life  are  unknown. 
Pilkington  was  heard  to  observe  in  conversation  that 
he  was  not  a  bad  old  cock. 

"In  the  match  against  the  Hopper's  team  last  Sat- 
urday, our  esteemed  collaborator  Mr.  Banks,  in  a 
frantic  attempt  to  prevent  a  cricket-ball  from  pulping 
his  face,  found  that  the  ball  had  accidentally  stuck 
to  his  hands.  As  he  has  been  speaking  rather  freely 
about  catching  their  best  bat,  we  think  it  well  to  give 
this  information. 

"The  noble  and  scholarly  Pilkington  has  purchased 
three  neckties.  He  also  inquired  the  price  of  pearl 
pins,  but  no  business  resulted." 

The  tone  of  the  magazine  was  decidedly  personal, 
and  that  made  talk.  The  Celestial  was  far  from  thirst- 
ing for  fame,  but  it  happened  that  even  that  great 
man  Pilkington,  editor  of  the  legitimate  school  maga- 


THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP    233 

zine,  prefect,  and  in  both  the  team  and  the  eleven, 
heard  of  it,  and  tackled  the  Celestial  on  the  subject. 
"What's  all  this  about  your  magazine,  Langsdyke?" 
he  asked. 

"It's  nothing  much,"  said  the  Celestial  modestly. 
"You  see,  we  thought  it  might  do  to  practise  in,  and 
perhaps  later  we  might  get  to  be  good  enough  for  the 
real  magazine." 

"Well,"  said  Pilkington,  "as  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, you  might  be  good  enough  already.  Anyhow, 
it's  no  good  sending  in  things  which  are  aimed  at 
masters.  You're  too  beastly  cheeky." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Celestial  sadly. 

"However,  I  said  I'd  like  just  to  run  my  eye  over 
the  thing.  Bring  two  or  three  of  the  numbers  up  to 
my  study,  will  you?" 

The  Celestial  ran  over  his  back  numbers  in  his  mind, 
and  could  not  recall  a  single  one  which  did  not  con- 
tain remarks  of  a  personal  nature  likely  to  be  offensive 
to  Pilkington,  so,  as  he  was  not  hungering  and  thirst- 
ing for  a  licking,  he  said  that  he  should  be  very  glad 
— and  forgot  about  it.  When  Pilkington  reminded 
him  later,  the  back  numbers  were  not  to  be  found. 
In  Pilkington's  presence  the  Celestial  inquired  most 
diligently  for  these  back  numbers  from  Smithson  and 
Banks  and  all  the  others.  They  none  of  them  seemed 
to  know  anything. 

But  as  time  went  on  the  Celestial  grew  lazy,  and 
deputed  the  greater  part  of  his  work  to  Smithson. 
Consequently  one  number  appeared  of  which  the  Ce- 
lestial had  never  seen  the  last  page,  and  when  he  saw 
it  he  was  angry.  "It's  no  good  talking  to  you,  Fat- 
head," he  said ;  "you've  got  no  sense.  Just  read  that 


234        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

through  again."  He  pointed  to  the  offending  para- 
graph. 

"Yes,"  said  Smithson  brightly,  "I  did  almost  think 
of  leaving  it  out;  but  it  was  Duncan  who  sent  it  in, 
and  he  might  have  turned  shirty,  and  I  was  in  a  hurry 
to  get  the  thing  finished,  and " 

"All  right,"  said  the  Celestial:  "no  one  else  has 
seen  it.  You  black  it  right  out,  and  I'll  go  and  have 
a  talk  with  Mr.  Duncan." 

The  Celestial's  interview,  like  almost  everything 
that  he  did,  was  half  in  fun  and  half  serious.  A  super- 
ficial observer  might  have  thought  that  Duncan  was 
merely  being  ragged.  Duncan,  who  had  every  means 
of  knowing,  was  under  the  impression  that  he  was 
being  licked.  The  chastisement  was  deserved.  It  was 
all  right  to  chaff  the  Hopper  and  the  other  masters, 
but  this  paragraph  dealt  with  that  very  different  thing, 
a  master's  wife — a  lady,  moreover,  who  was  extremely 
popular  in  the  school.  As  the  Celestial  observed,  even 
if  the  lady  in  question  were  not  beautiful,  it  was  no 
reason  for  a  sandy-haired  pudding-faced  pig  of  the 
prairies  like  Duncan  to  call  attention  to  it.  The  chas- 
tisement was  administered  smiling,  and  it  left  Duncan 
with  a  strong  desire  to  propitiate  the  Celestial. 

Now,  Smithson  was  above  all  things  a  slow,  con- 
scientious, and  painstaking  boy.  He  had  been  told 
by  the  Celestial,  his  lord  and  master,  to  black  out  the 
offending  paragraph,  and  he  had  only  got  a  "G"  pen 
to  do  it  with.  He  decided  that  a  "J"  pen  was  neces- 
sary to  execute  the  job  thoroughly,  and  as  Dobson 
in  the  junior  day-room  had  an  entire  box  of  "J"  pens, 
Smithson  went  off  to  appropriate  one.  It  was  while 
he  was  absent  that  Mr.  Liggers  sauntered  into  the 


THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP    235 

room  and  took  up  the  paper.  His  eye  fell  on  the  of- 
fending paragraph.  He  had  just  finished  it  when 
another  master  called  to  him,  and  he  went  off  to  play 
fives.  He  had  forgotten  to  confiscate  the  paper,  but 
he  could  do  that  later.  When  his  game  was  over  he 
went  to  his  own  rooms,  and  the  page-boy  who  waited 
upon  the  masters  in  the  schoolhouse  came  down  to 
the  day-room  to  say  that  Mr.  Liggers  wished  to  see 
Langsdyke. 

"See  that?"  said  the  Celestial  cheerfully.  "He 
loves  me  so  much  that  he  cannot  keep  away  from  me 
even  for  one  hour."  There  was  at  this  time  almost 
perpetual  warfare  between  Mr.  Liggers  and  the  Celes- 
tial. "Go  back  again,"  he  said  sternly  to  the  page-boy, 
"and  tell  Mr.  Liggers  that  I  regard  a  message  like 
that  as  cheek,  and  if  I  get  any  repetition  of  it  I  shall 
write  to  his  parents  and  stop  his  pocket-money." 

The  page-boy  grinned. 

Two  minutes  later  an  extremely  polite  Langsdyke 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Liggers's  room. 

"I  wish  to  see  you,  Langsdyke,"  said  Mr.  Liggers, 
"with  reference  to  some  sort  of  publication  in  manu- 
script that  I  found  on  the  table  in  the  day-room.  It 
bears  your  name,  and  I  suppose  you  are  responsible 
for  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Celestial. 

"I  did  not  examine  it  at  length,  but  it  appeared  to 
me  to  contain  a  good  deal  of  impertinence." 

"It  was  not  intended  to  be  shown  to  the  masters, 
sir." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Liggers — "quite  so.  I  see 
the  justice  of  that  plea.  We  do  not  expect  you  always 
to  speak  of  us  with  the  same  respect  with  which  you 


236        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

speak  to  us,  but  if  you  speak  disrespectfully  of  us  and 
allow  us  to  overhear,  you  have  to  take  the  conse- 
quences. If  you  produce  a  magazine  and  leave  it 
about  where  we  can  find  it,  you  must  take  the  con- 
sequences of  that  also." 

"Strictly  speaking,"  said  Langsdyke,  "it  shouldn't 
have  been  left  about.  We  made  a  rule  that  it  was  to 
be  kept  in  the  lockers  when  it  wasn't  being  read." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Liggers,  "I  can  settle  after- 
wards what  we  will  do  about  your  precious  magazine. 
What  I  wanted  to  speak  about  particularly  was  one 
paragraph  in  it  dealing  with  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
masters.  You  let  that  paragraph  go  in?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Celestial. 

"Well,  I  don't  expect  much  from  you,  but  I  thought 
you  were  more  of  a  man  than  that.  Who  wrote  it?" 

The  Celestial  hesitated.  "Well,  practically  I  did," 
he  said. 

"There  is  no  'practically'  about  it.  You  did  or  you 
didn't." 

"Then  I  did,"  said  the  Celestial. 

"Then  you  will  learn  for  me  by  heart  the  first 
chorus  in  the  'Agamemnon.'  If  it  were  any  use  I 
would  ask  you  to  try  to  behave  more  like  a  gentleman 
in  the  future,  but  I  do  not  think  it  is.  Boys  of  the 
type  that  would  do  that  kind  of  thing  would  be  better 
out  of  the  place  altogether,  and  that  is  how  I  expect 
you  will  end,  Langsdyke.  Now  you  can  go,  and  send 
up  that  number  of  your  magazine  to  me  at  once." 

Langsdyke  was  extremely  angry  as  he  came  down 
the  stone  stairs.  He  could  not,  of  course,  have  given 
Smithson  away,  or  Duncan,  more  especially  as  he 
had  already  punished  Duncan  himself;  still,  he  did 


THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP    237 

not  much  like  being  spoken  to  in  that  way,  and  it  was 
only  the  fear  that  on  some  further  investigation  the 
real  culprit  might  be  discovered  that  made  him  submit 
quietly. 

There  were  many  inquiries  when  he  got  back  to  the 
day-room  as  to  what  Mr.  Liggers  had  wanted. 

''He  wanted,"  said  the  Celestial,  "to  know  if  I 
could  come  to  tea  next  Sunday  to  meet  the  Emperor 
of  Gigaboo.  I  explained  that  I  drew  the  line  at 
emperors,  and  in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  passion  the 
bounder  has  given  me  the  first  chorus  to  learn  by 
heart. — Smithson,  ^Eschylus  forward.  Show  Aga- 
memnons." 


in 


AFTER  dinner  that  night  Mr.  Liggers  unbosomed  him- 
self to  Mr.  Dunham,  another  master,  in  the  school- 
house. 

"You  have  sometimes  accused  me,"  said  Mr.  Lig- 
gers, "of  being  a  bit  too  rough  with  that  chap  Langs- 
dyke." 

"So  you  are,"  said  Dunham.  "The  Celestial's  all 
right." 

"Well,  I  happen  to  know  he  isn't."  Here  he  pro- 
duced the  number  of  "Langsdyke's  Home  Truths." 
"This  is  a  pleasant  little  amateur  magazine  that  he 
has  been  running,  and  I'll  ask  you  to  hear  what  this 
chivalrous  little  beast  has  to  say  about  Mrs.  Morris." 
He  turned  to  the  place  in  the  magazine,  and  looked 
blank  amazement.  "Why,"  he  said,  "the  paragraph 
has  all  been  deleted.  Look  at  that." 


238        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Yes,"  said  Dunham:  "a  very  artistic  piece  of  work. 
It  would  take  at  least  ten  minutes  to  black  it  out  like 
that.  When  was  it  done?" 

Liggers  wrinkled  his  forehead,  and  could  find  no 
way  out  of  it.  "When  I  sent  for  Langsdyke  he  cer- 
tainly didn't  know  that  I  had  ever  seen  the  magazine. 
When  he  left  me  I  told  him  to  send  it  up  to  me  at 
once:  there  would  have  been  no  time  to  delete  any- 
thing at  all,  especially  in  that  finished  style." 

"Then  here  are  a  few  simple  deductions.  The 
thing  was  deleted  before  you  ever  made  any  row 
about  it." 

"It  would  seem  so,"  Mr.  Liggers  admitted. 

"And  it  was  deleted  by  the  Celestial,  or  by  his 
order,  for  I  think  the  rest  of  the  senior  day-room 
know  that  he  is  a  dangerous  chap  to  play  games 
with." 

"That  may  be  so." 

"It  must  be  so.  Now,  if  he  deleted  it,  you  may  be 
absolutely  certain  that  he  did  not  write  it." 

"But  he  told  me  himself  that  he  did  write  it." 

"That  is  just  what  I  should  have  expected  from 
that  boy.  You  see,  this  magazine  is  'No.  5' :  I  doubt 
if  he  would  be  able  to  keep  up  an  active  interest  for 
the  space  of  five  numbers;  he  would  hand  the  work 
over  to  the  faithful  Smithson,  or  somebody  else  in 
his  crowd." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Liggers  snappishly,  "if  he  chooses 
to  tell  me  a  direct  lie,  he  must  take  the  consequences." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Dunham,  "it  was  a  direct  lie  right 
enough,  though  he  wasn't  lying  for  his  own  sake. 
However,  let  us  be  moral.  What  are  the  conse- 
quences ?" 

"The  first  chorus  of  the  'Agamemnon'  by  heart." 


THE  CELESTIAL'S  EDITORSHIP    239 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Dunham.  "You  probably 
told  the  chap  he  was  a  cad." 

"So  would  you  in  my  place." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  Dunham.  "If  I  had  I  should 
take  it  back." 

"Well,  I  shan't." 

Dunham  changed  the  subject  abruptly,  and  spoke 
of  a  coming  cricket  match. 

"Why  should  I  ?"  said  Mr.  Liggers  peevishly. 

"Because  you  think  you  should,"  said  Dunham. 

"Very  well.  Anything  for  peace  and  quietness.  I 
shall  see  him  in  prep,  to-night." 

"I  have  been  looking  over  your  magazine,  Langs- 
dyke,"  said  Mr.  Liggers  judicially,  "and  I  see  that 
the  paragraph  to  which  I  particularly  objected  has 
been  deleted.  When  was  that  done?" 

"Done  this  morning,  sir." 

"In  that  case  perhaps  I  expressed  myself  too 
strongly  when  I  saw  you  upstairs.  It  seems  that  after 
all  you  had  some  sparks  of  decent  feeling.  That  be- 
ing so,  and  on  the  understanding  that  the  magazine 
is  discontinued,  you  need  not  finish  that  chorus  in 
the  'Agamemnon.' ' 

"Thanks  very  much,  sir,"  said  Langsdyke;  "but  I 
knew  it  by  heart  before  you  gave  it  to  me  to  do.  I 
learnt  it  for  fun,  and  I'd  only  got  to  freshen  it  up  a 
bit." 

"Bring  me  your  'Agamemnon.'    Now,  then,  begin." 

The  Celestial  repeated  the  chorus  from  beginning 
to  end  with  an  occasional  hesitation,  but  he  required 
no  prompting. 

"That's  very  good,"  said  Mr.  Liggers  briefly. 

Later,  when  all  the  boys  had  gone  to  bed,  and  he 
and  Dunham  sat  smoking  together,  Mr.  Liggers  sud- 


240        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

denly  broke  off  from  the  subject  in  hand  to  say:  "If 
there  is  one  thing  in  this  world  that  I  cannot  under- 
stand, it  is  that  chap  Langsdyke." 

"That,"    said    Dunham   dryly,    "has    always   been 
fairly  obvious." 


XXIII 
THE  TENWOOD   WITCH 

MR.  AMBROSE  KAY  made  his  living  by  being 
born  with  money,  marrying  some  more,  and 
inheriting  the  rest  There  is  no  other  method  of 
making  a  living  which  throws  so  little  strain  upon 
the  maker,  and  if  this  way  were  more  generally 
adopted  it  is  probable  that  much  grumbling  and  discon- 
tent would  be  avoided.  Ambrose  Kay  had  a  sweet  and 
gentle  disposition,  never  having  felt  any  strain  of  any 
kind.  He  never  grumbled  about  his  house  in  Hill 
Street,  and  he  was  careful  not  to  speak  about  Ten- 
wood  Manor  in  the  county  of  Sussex  at  all,  because 
if  he  had  spoken  he  would  have  bragged.  He  thought 
Tenwood  to  be  in  every  respect  perfection  in  spite  of 
its  gruesome  tradition;  he  loved  the  place.  He  was 
always  rather  formal,  and  at  the  age  of  forty  his  round 
eyes  peered  through  gold-rimmed  glasses  and  his 
speech  was  slow  and  precise.  Strangers  were  gener- 
ally a  little  surprised  when  they  found  that  he  was 
a  good  sportsman,  of  an  old-fashioned  type.  He  had 
married  at  twenty-five  a  good-natured  tomboy  of  a 
girl  seven  years  younger  than  himself,  and  the  mar- 
riage had  been  eminently  happy. 

But  no  man  is  so  happily  placed  that  he  may  avoid 
all  anxieties,  and  Ambrose  Kay  had  his  share  of  them. 
There  was,  for  instance,  the  time  when  his  hair  was 

241 


242         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

getting  thin  on  the  top.  There  was  a  long  period  of 
struggle.  Specialists  were  called  in;  flagrant  and  im- 
possible quacks  were  not  disdained.  One  remedy 
followed  another.  There  were  gleams  of  hope 
occasionally  in  a  night  of  despair — times  when  he 
would  come  down  to  breakfast  and  tell  his  wife  that 
he  thought  he  had  really  hit  on  the  right  stuff  at  last. 
But  one  by  one  the  gleams  died  out,  and  an  inexorable 
looking-glass  assured  him  that  the  struggle  had  gone 
against  him.  That  anxiety  was  all  over  now.  James 
had  long  ago  cleared  the  majestic  array  of  ineffective 
bottles  from  Mr.  Kay's  dressing-room.  Ambrose  Kay 
was  quite  resigned  now,  and  the  crown  of  his  head 
was  completely  bald.  He  was  still  anxious  about  his 
figure.  He  kept  a  weighing-machine  in  his  dressing- 
room,  and  consulted  it  at  regular  intervals.  And  here 
his  war  with  fortune  was  more  successful.  On  the 
days  when  that  stupid  machine  made  insulting  dis- 
closures of  a  gain  of  flesh,  Ambrose  Kay  became  ap- 
pallingly strenuous.  The  time  which  was  not  given 
to  violent  exercise  was  time  lost.  At  the  table  he 
became  an  ascetic,  partaking  of  specially  prepared 
dishes  from  which  everything  at  all  amusing  had  been 
rigorously  excluded.  And  he  always  triumphed;  the 
weighing-machine  admitted  the  loss  of  the  requisite 
number  of  pounds,  and  for  a  while  Ambrose  Kay  was 
happy  and  himself  again.  But  he  was  still  anxious; 
at  any  time  it  might  be  necessary  to  begin  the  struggle 
again. 

But  his  chief  and  most  persistent  anxiety  was  his 
only  child  Victoria,  just  fourteen  at  the  time  of  this 
story.  He  was  most  seriously  troubled  on  the  subject 
of  her  health,  which  was  excellent.  He  worried  con- 
tinually about  her  education,  and  the  formation  of  her 


THE  TENWOOD  WITCH  243 

character,  and  the  books  she  read,  and  the  pony  she 
rode.  Ordinary  parental  care  would  have  looked  like 
stark  neglect  beside  the  multitudinous  solicitudes  of 
Ambrose  Kay.  Never  was  any  child  so  hygienically 
fed  and  clothed  as  Victoria,  so  protected  and  waddled 
in  cotton-wool,  so  meticulously  administered.  Few 
nursemaids  had  been  able  to  keep  up  to  the  high 
standard  that  Mr.  Kay  demanded  for  Victoria  for 
more  than  a  month  or  two.  The  world  was  ransacked 
to  find  a  governess  of  perfection  for  her.  Her  pony 
had  been  subjected  to  tests  that  would  have  found 
out  the  weak  points  of  a  canonized  saint,  and  was 
without  doubt  the  safest  pony  in  Sussex.  Victoria 
surveyed  it  all  with  wondering  eyes,  and  called  the 
pony  an  old  sheep. 

It  occurred  to  many  people,  Victoria  included,  that 
Mr.  Kay  rather  overdid  it.  "After  all,"  her  mother 
observed,  "she's  not  ill,  you  know.  She's  not  even 
delicate." 

"Possibly  not,"  Mr.  Kay  admitted,  "possibly  not. 
But  there's  the  nervous  constitution  to  consider.  Only 
to-day  I  discovered  (fortunately  in  time)  that  Mrs. 
Annersley  had  given  her  that  book  of  Hans  Ander- 
sen's. I  will  not  allow  her  to  hear  anything  whatever 
about  fairies,  or  ghosts,  or  ogres,  or  any  supernatural 
nonsense  of  that  kind.  That's  the  way  that  children 
are  tortured  and  their  nerves  ruined  for  life." 

"Don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Kay  meditatively.  "I  used 
to  read  Hans  Andersen,  and  my  nerves  have  come  out 
of  it  all  right.  And  the  child  lives  in  a  haunted  house, 
anyhow." 

."Please  don't  revive  that  old  story;  we  know  that 
there's  nothing  in  it,  and  it's  best  forgotten." 

"Well,  the  Tenwood  Witch  died  here," 


244        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Some  old  woman  who  was  so  called  died  here 
undoubtedly.  That  is  the  only  scrap  of  truth  in  the 
whole  thing.  Nothing  has  ever  occurred  to  make  us 
believe  that  the  house  is  haunted." 

"The  servants  talk  among  themselves  at  times." 

"Servants  will  always  talk.  If  any  one  of  them 
breathes  a  word  on  the  subject  to  Victoria  it  will 
mean  instant  dismissal,  and  they  know  it.  If  there 
had  been  anything  ghostly  to  see  or  hear,  you  or  I 
would  have  come  across  it." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  it's  not  only  Victoria  I'm  thinking  about. 
You  know  how  nervous  Alicia  is,  and  she's  sleeping 
in  the  haunted  room — I  mean  the  room  that  was  once 
said  to  be  haunted." 

Alicia  was  Lady  Alicia  Medley,  a  distant  cousin  of 
Ambrose  Kay's.  She  was  unmarried,  sixty  years  old, 
melancholy,  and  gifted  with  a  fine  capacity  for  be- 
lieving almost  anything.  She  was  particularly  great 
at  amateur  doctoring  and  dispensing.  She  never  vis- 
ited Tenwood  without  discovering  that  Victoria  needed 
"a  little  something."  This  time  she  insisted  upon 
cod-liver  oil.  Victoria  loathed  cod-liver  oil,  and  to 
say  that  she  loved  her  Aunt  Alicia  would  be  a  misrepre- 
sentation of  fact.  The  only  other  Christmas  guests 
who  had  arrived  so  far  were  Mr.  Annersley  and  his 
wife — the  lady  who  had  been  indiscreet  enough  to 
present  Victoria  with  "Hans  Andersen" — and  their 
daughter  Judith,  a  girl  of  about  the  same  age  of  Vic- 
toria and  her  dearest  and  most  intimate  friend. 

As  the  two  girls  crossed  the  park  that  afternoon 
Miss  Judith  Annersley  observed  that  the  surrounding 
scenery  was  rather  decent,  and  that  one  ought  to  have 
a  pretty  good  time  at  Tenwood. 


THE  TENWOOD  WITCH  245 

"Think  so,  Judy?"  said  Victoria.  "It  wouldn't  be 
so  rotten  if  it  weren't  for  the  grown-ups." 

Miss  Annersley  protested  that  she  had  found  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Kay  rather  decent — in  which  apparently 
they  resembled  the  scenery. 

"Dear  papa's  all  right,"  said  Victoria,  "when  I'm 
handling  him  alone.  He's  an  awful  muff  about  me, 
but  I  can  generally  work  things  somehow." 

"Queer  too,"  said  Judith,  "because  he's  not  a  muff 
other  ways — I  mean  to  say  he's  a  good  shot  and  all 
that." 

"Yes,  but  he's  got  me  on  his  mind  and  on  his 
nerves,  and  now  that  he's  got  Aunt  Alicia  to  back  him 
it's  no  joke.  Judy,  that  woman's  a  holy  terror.  It's 
cod-liver  oil  at  present.  But  she's  taken  the  carriage 
and  driven  off  to  the  chemist's  this  afternoon,  so  good- 
ness knows  what  it  will  be  next.  She  says  that  at  this 
season  of  the  year  the  young  and  thoughtless  (that's 
you  and  me)  are  apt  to  try  their  digestions  severely, 
and  it  is  as  well  to  have  a  few  useful  correctives  on 
hand.  Those  were  her  own  blessed  words." 

"I  say,"  said  Miss  Judith  Annersley,  "couldn't  we 
shunt  her?" 

"Don't  I  wish  we  could!"  said  Victoria,  with  fer- 
vor. "She's  an  utter  and  complete  cat,  and  I  wouldn't 
much  mind  what  I  did.  Mind  you,  you're  not  safe, 
Judy.  She  was  on  to  your  mother  this  morning,  say- 
ing that  you  didn't  look  robust,  and  she  could  recom- 
mend a  tonic.  I  had  that  tonic  myself  last  year,  and 
it  was  enough  to  poison  an  elephant." 

"I  don't  know  why  she  shouldn't  go,"  said  Judith 
pensively.  "And  I've  got  an  idea  that  wouldn't  be 
half  bad." 


246        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

They  discussed  that  idea  at  great  length. 


Lady  Alicia  Medley  looked  pale  and  haggard  at 
breakfast  next  morning.  In  answer  to  kind  inquiries 
from  Victoria  and  her  friend  Judith,  she  admitted 
that  she  had  not  slept  well.  Later  in  the  morning  she 
had  a  serious  interview  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kay. 

"Ethel,"  said  Lady  Alicia  solemnly,  "I  am  sorry 
to  have  to  tell  you  that  I  cannot  be  one  of  your  Christ- 
mas party  this  year.  I  cannot,  in  fact,  spend  one 
more  night  under  this  roof,  and  I  leave  by  the  after- 
noon train.  And,  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  also 
will  leave  this  house  as  soon  as  may  be  and  at  any  cost, 
and  never  return  to  it." 

"Dear  me!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Kay,  "I'm  awfully 
sorry.  This  is  very  sudden.  What  has  been  happen- 
ing?" 

Lady  Alicia  Medley  observed  that  there  were  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  Ambrose  supposed. 
She  had  had  a  strange  and  awful  experience,  one 
which  she  would  never  forget,  and  wished  never  to 
go  through  again. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  think  you've 
seen " 

"No,  Ambrose,  I  do  not  think  I've  seen.  I  am  not 
that  kind  of  woman.  I  have  actually  seen  the  his- 
toric ghost  of  this  house — the  Ten  wood  Witch — and 
seen  as  clearly  as  I  see  you  now." 

"This  is  too  extraordinary.  Are  you  sure  you  didn't 
dream  it?"  Mrs.  Kay  asked. 

"Not  being  a  complete  imbecile,  Ethel,  I  know 
whether  I  am  awake  or  not.  When  this  occurrence 
happened  I  was  wideawake." 


THE  TENWOOD  WITCH  247 

"Do  tell  us  about  it." 

"Like  yourselves,  I  discredited  the  story  of  the 
Tenwood  Witch.  I  have  slept  in  the  haunted  room 
often  on  previous  visits,  and  have  neither  seen  nor 
heard  anything  unusual.  I  never  expected  to  see 
anything,  and  I  am  not  a  nervous  woman.  If  I  felt 
anything  approaching  to  nerves  I  should  take 
Thatcher's  All-round  Tonic  or  some  other  suitable 
remedy.  I  have  been  told  that  I  am  particularly  cool 
and  clear-headed,  and  certainly  I  am  not  a  person  to 
imagine  things." 

"Certainly  not." 

"Very  well.  At  a  quarter  to  two  this  morning  I 
was  awakened  by  an  icy  breath  passing  over  my  face. 
I  looked  round  and  saw  that  the  door  of  my  room 
was  slowly  opening.  As  it  opened  the  moonlight 
streamed  in  from  the  big  window  on  the  other  side  of 
the  passage,  so  that  I  could  see  distinctly  and  beyond 
the  possibility  of  any  mistake.  And  suddenly  there 
in  the  doorway  stood  the  figure  of  the  Tenwood  Witch 
— a  bent  old  woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head  and 
a  cloak  that  reached  to  the  ground.  I  could  not  see 
the  face  very  well,  but  in  dress  and  general  appearance 
she  closely  resembled  the  portrait  of  the  Tenwood 
Witch  in  the  county  history." 

Mr.  Kay  made  a  mental  note  that  Victoria  must  on 
no  account  be  allowed  to  consult  the  county  history. 

"In  one  hand  the  figure  held  a  great  staff,  the 
twisted  bough  of  some  tree,  and  with  this  it  made 
threatening  gestures.  When  I  looked  again  it  had 
gone — vanished  without  the  faintest  sound  of  a  foot- 
step. I  waited  a  little,  and  then  I  switched  on  the 
light,  got  up,  and  shut  and  locked  the  door.  That 
was  all,  but  it  was  enough.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  go. 


248         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

My  maid  is  packing  my  things  at  this  moment — she 
feels  quite  as  I  do  about  it." 

Lady  Alicia's  account  of  what  had  happened  was 
not  strictly  accurate.  I  doubt  very  much  if  she  ever 
felt  that  icy  breath.  Nor  was  it  true  that  the  foot- 
steps were  absolutely  noiseless.  I  happen  to  know 
that  the  Tenwood  Witch  on  this  occasion  was  wearing 
tennis  shoes,  in  order  to  step  as  quietly  as  possible, 
but  she  was  not  absolutely  noiseless.  Lady  Alicia 
remained  obdurate.  No  persuasions  could  move  her. 
"No,  Ethel,"  she  said,  "I'll  come  and  see  you  in  Hill 
Street  with  pleasure,  but  never  again  in  this  house. 
And  if  you  take  my  advice  you'll  sell  the  place  at 
once." 

"But  she  did  dream  it,"  said  Ambrose  Kay  to  his 
wife  when  they  were  left  alone. 

"Yes,  unless  someone  was  playing  a  practical  joke 
on  her." 

"I  don't  think  it  likely.  Of  course,  I  don't  believe 
a  word  of  the  nonsense  any  more  than  you  do,  but  we 
must  take  steps  at  once  to  prevent  any  word  of  this 
getting  to  Victoria's  ears." 

"You  think  Vic  would  be  frightened?" 

"I  can't  say.  She  appears  high-spirited,  but  I  am 
convinced  that  the  nervous  constitution  is  there.  Chil- 
dren have  been  frightened  into  lunatic  asylums  by 
these  stupid  ghost  stories  before  now.  Unfortunately, 
Alicia  told  her  maid,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  maid  will  have  told  our  own  servants.  I  must  see 
to  it  immediately." 

Ambrose  Kay  developed  as  much  energy  as  if  his 
weighing-machine  had  recorded  a  three-pound  increase. 
Long  before  Lady  Alicia  had  left  the  house  every 
servant  in  the  house  knew  that  if  they  breathed  one 


THE  TENWOOD  WITCH  249 

word  of  what  had  happened  to  Miss  Victoria  Kay  their 
portion  would  be  instant  dismissal,  with,  in  all  proba- 
bility, a  long  term  of  penal  servitude  to  follow. 

"Ambrose,"  said  Lady  Alicia  sternly,  just  before 
her  departure,  "I  can  see  by  your  manner  that  you 
disbelieve  me." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Ambrose.  "I'm  sure  you  thought 
you  saw  what  you  say.  These  illusions  do  sometimes 
happen,  especially  when  one  is  not  quite  awake." 

"Really,  you're  extremely  trying,  Ambrose.  I  don't 
have  illusions.  I  saw  what  was  there,  and  I  will  not 
run  the  risk  of  another  similar  shock  to  my  nerves." 

"You  could  have  any  of  the  other  bedrooms,  of 
course.  It's  only  the  room  you  had  that  is  supposed 
to  be  haunted.  You  used  to  laugh  at  it." 

"That  was  before  I  had  this  awful  experience. 
Nothing  would  induce  me  to  spend  another  night  in 
the  house.  And  in  my  opinion  you  will  be  acting  very 
wrongly  if  you  do  not  warn  your  other  guests  and  let 
them  visit  you  later,  when  you've  sold  this  place  and 
have  a  decent  house  where  this  kind  of  thing  does  not 
happen." 

"But,  you  know,  I  can't  sell  this  place,  even  if  I 
wanted  to.  It's  to  go  to  Victoria.  And  if  I  warned 
people  about  a  ghost  they'd  either  laugh  at  me  or 
think  that  I  was  making  excuses  because  I  didn't  want 
them." 

"Well,  I  have  done  my  duty.  I  have  warned  the 
Annersleys,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  they  treated 
the  matter  in  a  very  flippant  and  frivolous  manner. 
Possibly  by  this  time  to-morrow  they  will  be  sorry 
they  did  not  leave  when  I  did.  You  may  be  sorry 
also." 

As  Ambrose  Kay  watched  the  carriage  vanish  down 


250        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

the  drive  he  did  not  feel  absolutely  heartbroken  at  the 
loss.  They  had  done  their  duty  in  asking  her,  but 
she  was  rather  a  lugubrious  old  lady,  and  did  not  add 
to  the  enjoyment  of  a  Christmas  house-party.  Be- 
sides, he  felt  a  little  doubtful  about  Lady  Alicia's 
indiscriminate  prescriptions.  If  Victoria  needed  medi- 
cine, would  it  not  after  all  be  as  well  that  the  medicine 
should  be  given  by  a  regular  doctor?  And,  finally, 
he  was  annoyed  with  her  for  her  attempt  to  detach 
the  Annersleys.  She  was  of  the  family,  and  could 
come  and  go  as  she  pleased  or  as  her  nightmares  might 
happen  to  move  her;  but  what  right  had  she  to  try 
to  spoil  his  Christmas  house-party? 

An  idea  occurred  to  him.  If  Lady  Alicia  had  told 
the  Annersleys  all  about  it,  it  was  just  possible  that 
they  might  be  mad  enough  to  speak  of  it  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Victoria.  Obviously,  it  was  of  no  use  to 
muzzle  the  servants  if  the  visitors  were  free  to  do  the 
harm.  He  could  picture  Victoria  in  a  madhouse,  her 
nervous  constitution  wrecked  from  the  terror  inspired 
by  indiscreet  revelations  of  the  spirit  world.  He 
sought  for  Mrs.  Annersley  at  once. 

She  treated  the  matter  as  a  joke,  but  was  quite 
willing  to  promise  to  say  nothing  to  Victoria  about  it. 
"Still,"  she  added,  "why  not  let  her  share  the  fun? 
I  told  Judith,  and  she  doesn't  seem  much  upset  by 
it." 

"Ah,  but  possibly  Judith  has  not  Victoria's  nervous 
constitution,  and  children  often  suffer  terribly  from 
these  things  when  they  are  too  proud  to  admit  it. 
Dear  me,  there  is  Judith  in  the  garden  with  Victoria. 
If  you  don't  mind,  I  think  I'll  just  say  a  word  to  her." 

He  went  down  and  secured  Judith.  "I  say,  my 
dear,  I  believe  you've  heard  why  Lady  Alicia  left  so 


THE  TENWOOD  WITCH  251 

suddenly.  Now,  of  course,.  I  know  that  she  never 
saw  any  ghost  at  all." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Judith. 

"Sensible  girl.  There  are  no  such  things  as  ghosts. 
Still,  it  might  be  as  well  not  to  tell  Victoria.  She  is 
not  quite  so  strong-minded  as  you  are.  She  has  a 
nervous  constitution.  A  thing  like  that  might  keep 
her  awake  at  night.  So  don't  tell  her  why  Lady 
Alicia  left." 

"All  right,"  said  Judith  seriously,  "I  won't  tell 
her,"  and  then,  quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  she 
broke  into  a  wild  burst  of  uncontrollable  laughter. 
She  apologized  breathlessly  as  soon  as  she  could  speak, 
and  explained  that  her  father  and  mother  had  made 
fun  of  it;  she  supposed  that  was  why  she  had  laughed. 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Kay,  but  he  shook  his  head  seri- 
ously. 

"I  assure  you,"  he  told  his  wife  afterwards,  "that 
the  child,  Judith  Annersley,  was  on  the  verge  of 
hysteria.  Of  course  she  would  not  confess  that  she 
was  frightened,  and  tried  to  make  me  believe  that 
she  was  rather  amused  than  not,  but  I  could  see  very 
well  that  she  was  not  herself.  I'm  really  sorry  we 
ever  asked  that  old  cat  here  at  all ;  why  should  every- 
body suffer  because  she  happens  to  have  a  nightmare  ? 
It's  too  bad.  Thank  Heaven,  Victoria  will  never  hear 
anything  about  it.  I've  guarded  against  that." 

His  weighing-machine  that  night  guaranteed  a  loss 
of  several  ounces.  From  one  point  of  view  this  was 
satisfactory.  It  illustrated,  as  he  observed,  the  power 
of  mind  over  matter,  and  the  effects  of  worry  on  the 
general  physique. 


252         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Judith  and  Victoria  spent  a  happy  afternoon.  Their 
conversation  was  interrupted  at  intervals  by  bursts  of 
laughter  that  left  them  helpless  and  speechless. 

"And  to  think,  Judy,"  said  Victoria,  "that  I  nearly 
missed  it  altogether.  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  go  at 
twelve  o'clock,  because  that's  the  proper  time  for 
ghosts  and  hobgoblins.  But  I  didn't  wake  till  nearly 
two.  I'd  half  a  mind  to  chuck  it  until  to-night,  but 
then  I  thought  I'd  take  my  chance.  It  would  have 
been  better  just  at  midnight,  but  I  guessed  it  would 
scare  her  any  time.  So  I  slipped  on  my  toggery  and 
slithered  down  the  tower  stairs  in  my  tennis  shoes. 
She  never  said  a  word.  Oh,  that  was  all  right — that 
was  quite  absolutely  right!  And  there's  a  good  five- 
shilling  bottle  of  cod-liver  oil  at  the  bottom  of  the 
fish-pond." 

"Her  parting  present  to  me,"  said  Judith,  "was 
a  large  tin  of  eupeptic  tablets.  I  was  to  take  one  after 
every  meal — or  two  if  I  had  any  feeling  of  constric- 
tion." 

"What's  that?" 

"Blessed  if  I  know." 

"What  have  you  done  with  them?" 

"I  gave  a  big  handful  of  them  to  your  old  pony." 

"What  a  pig  you  are,  Judy !  You  oughtn't  to  have 
done  that." 

"That's  all  right.  He  wouldn't  look  at  them.  So 
I  buried  them  all !" 

"Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do?"  asked  Vic- 
toria. "I'm  going  to  ask  papa  to  give  me  the  haunted 
room.  It's  much  nicer  than  the  room  I've  got.  It's 
bigger,  and  it's  got  lots  of  cupboards,  and  it's  pan- 
elled." 

"He  won't  do  it." 


THE  TENWOOD  WITCH  253 

"Yes,  he  will.  He  doesn't  believe  in  the  witch 
business  himself,  and  he'll  always  do  anything  I  want 
unless  he  can  argue  that  it's  bad  for  me.  The  worst 
of  it  is  that  I'll  have  to  tell  him  about  this  little  spree 
of  ours  one  of  these  days." 

"I  shouldn't.    Why?" 

"Don't  know.  I've  got  to  tell  the  poor  old  dear 
everything  that  I  can  tell  him.  I  can't  tell  him  that 
I  rode  his  hunter  the  other  morning,  because  if  I  did 
he'd  sack  every  man  and  boy  in  the  stables.  And 
it's  not  their  fault,  because  I  persuaded  them.  But 
I'll  tell  him  about  the  Tenwood  Witch;  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  it  amused  him.  I  fancy  he's  not  too  keen 
about  Aunt  Alicia  himself.  Besides,  it's  Christmas 
time,  and  nobody  can  make  much  of  a  row  about 
anything  at  Christmas  time." 

•  ••••• 

Victoria  kept  her  word.  She  told  her  father  the 
whole  story.  He  said  that  she  had  been  very  wrong, 
and  she  must  promise  never  to  do  it  again.  She 
promised  at  once.  It  was,  he  reminded  her,  the  duty 
of  children  to  show  a  proper  respect  for  their  aunts. 

"Even  if  they  give  you  pills?"  suggested  Victoria. 

Besides,  her  father  urged,  these  practical  jokes  were 
very  dangerous.  Victoria  herself  apparently  had  not 
got  a  nervous  constitution,  but  Aunt  Alicia  had.  It 
was  entirely  due  to  Victoria's  wickedness  that  Aunt 
Alicia  was  not  with  them  and  sharing  in  the  Christmas 
festivities. 

At  this  point  a  slight  spasm  crossed  over  her  father's 
face.  The  spasm  became  a  smile,  and  the  smile  be- 
came a  laugh. 


254        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

It  may  be  presumed  that  she  was  forgiven.  For 
at  'present  she  occupies  the  haunted  room,  and  at  an 
impromptu  fancy  dress  dance  that  Christmas  she  had 
considerable  success  as  the  Tenwood  Witch. 


XXIV 
LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND 


TOW  sweet  it  would  be,"  said  Isobel,  "to  remain 

_|_  J.  here  for  ever  in  this  lovely  little  island  in  the 
middle  of  the  big,  lonely  lake,  just  you  and  I,  Willy !" 

"Table  d'hote  at  7.30,"  said  William  gloomily,  "and 
we've  got  to  get  back  for  it.  And  then  we  shan't  get 
another  moment  alone  together  till  after  nine.  And 
even  then  we  shan't  unless  we  wander  off  into  the 
garden  together,  and  the  last  time  we  did  that  we 
were  accused  of  selfishness.  We're  all  right,  but  I 
can't  make  out  what  the  rest  of  the  world  was  made 
for." 

Truly  it  was  an  enchanting  island,  with  tall  trees 
where  the  herons  built,  and  gray,  moss-grown  boulders 
where  shy,  rare  lizards  sunned  themselves,  and 
stretches  of  bracken.  Here  for  a  brief  hour  they  had 
been  quite  out  of  the  world.  But  it  was  five  o'clock, 
and  it  would  take  them  nearly  two  hours  to  get  back 
to  hateful  civilization,  and  hateful  civilization  de- 
manded them  acidly  and  peremptorily. 

"Listen,"  said  Isobel,  "to  the  little  wavelets  talking 
nonsense  all  round  the  coast — making  love  to  the 
silence.  Oh,  this  fragment  of  pure,  sequestered  Na- 
ture— Nature  as  sweet  as  she  always  is  when  she  is 
left  to  herself!" 

255 


256        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"And  we're  going  back,"  said  William,  "to  that 
inferior  pot-house  masquerading  as  a  first-class  hotel 
under  the  guidance  of  an  intelligent  Swiss.  Back  to 
the  sole  that  is  really  plaice,  and  to  the  crime  de 
volatile  with  a  quadrupedal  origin,  and  to  the  lamb 
that  is  frozen,  and  the  peas  that  are  tinned.  And  at 
the  next  table  will  be  the  Reverend  Father  with  the 
indigestion,  and  the  mature  lady  with  the  conversation, 
and  the  satisfied  American  who  tells  us  what  he  will  do 
with  this  country  when  he  has  bought  it." 

"I  don't  like  the  people,"  said  Isobel.  "And 
mamma  doesn't  like  them  either.  And  the  dinner 
isn't  nearly  as  good  as  it  looks  and  sounds.  But  all 
the  same  you  think  too  much  about  food.  You're 
too  material." 

"I'm  particularly  spiritual  by  nature,"  said  William 
modestly.  "But  at  dinner  food  is  rather  thrust  on 
your  attention,  and  I  have  an  honest  man's  hatred 
of  imitations.  Otherwise  my  wants  are  few.  A  loaf 
of  bread,  a  jug — or  just  the  ordinary  bottle — of  wine, 
and  thou  beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness,  and 
nobody  need  trouble  about  me  further;  in  fact,  I 

wouldn't  insist  on  the  bread.  It's Good 

heavens !" 

They  had  just  come  round  the  corner  to  the  landing- 
stage,  and  in  one  flash  of  an  eye  William  had  realized 
that  the  boat  in  which  he  had  rowed  Isobel  across  to 
the  island  was  no  longer  there. 

"The  boat's  got  away!"  cried  Isobel  in  anguish. 

"So  I  was  observing,  and  I'm  afraid  it's  my  fault. 
I  can't  make  it  out,  for  the  knot  that  I  tied  can't  slip 
or  go  wrong.  The  harder  the  boat  pulled  the  tighter 
the  knot  would  get.  If  there  were — or  had  been — 


LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND  257 

anyone  on  the  island  besides  ourselves,  I  should  say 
that  someone  had  been  having  a  little  game  with  us." 

"Oh,  Willy!  I've  remembered.  Can  you  forgive 
me?" 

"Not  at  present,  because  I've  got  nothing  to  forgive. 
But  if  you'll  provide  the  material " 

"It  was  my  fault — all  my  fault.  It  was  while  you 
were  struggling  with  our  fire  to  boil  the  kettle.  I 
slipped  back  to  the  boat  to  get  my  parasol,  and  it  was 
right  at  the  other  end  of  the  boat;  and  I  untied  it  to 
pull  it  round,  and  then  I  tied  it  up  again,  and  I  suppose 
that  was  it." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  William. 

"But  what  will  everybody  think?  And  what  will 
they  do?" 

"Well,  with  our  customary  secretiveness  we  never 
said  where  we  were  going.  They  know  that  we  took 
the  tea-basket  and  a  rug."  He  had  been  carrying 
these,  and  he  now  put  them  down.  "And  that's  all 
they  know.  We  might  be  up  one  of  the  many  noble 
mountains  that  give  this  desolate  country  its  attraction 
for  the  tourist.  We  might  be  over  at  the  ruined  abbey. 
The  lake  is  three  miles  away  from  the  hotel,  and  may 
never  occur  to  them  at  all.  About  half -past  eight  or 
nine  they  will  begin  search-partying,  but  they  won't 
have  the  faintest  idea  where  to  search.  If  we  had 
hired  the  boat,  the  man  who  let  it  could  have  been 
depended  upon  to  rescue  us.  But  this  is  Jefferson's 
private  boat,  which  he  gave  me  the  use  of,  and  I  doubt 
very  much  if  anybody  saw  us  unlock  the  boat-house 
and  get  it  out.  If  we'd  been  trying  to  steal  the  boat 
we  should  have  had  some  of  his  men  round  us  in  no 
time.  So,  taking  one  consideration  with  another,  we 


258         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

shall  certainly  be  rescued,  but  quite  possibly  it  won't 
be  till  to-morrow  morning." 

"It's  perfectly  awful.  But  I'm  quite  sure  someone 
will  come  for  us  long  before  that.  Don't  look  so 
downhearted,  Willy ;  it  will  only  mean  that  your  dear 
dinner  will  be  put  off  for  an  hour  or  two.  I  don't 
mind  it  a  bit.  It's  rather  adventurous  and  romantic!" 

"Yes,  but  there's  just  a  chance  that  it  will  be 
beastly  uncomfortable  for  you,  if  we  have  to  stop  here 
all  night.  That's  what  I  don't  like." 

"We  aren't  going  to  stop  here.  Some  other  boat 
will  come  over." 

"Bit  late  in  the  day  for  it." 

"Well,  something's  certain  to  happen.  It  always 
does  on  desert  islands.  Now  what  ought  we  to  do?" 

"I'm  told  there  are  a  lot  of  queer  cross-currents 
in  the  lake,  and  it's  quite  possible  our  boat  may  have 
drifted  in  again.  We'll  just  go  round  the  island  and 
look.  Or  I'll  go  alone,  if  you're  tired." 

"Not  a  bit.  I'll  go  one  way  and  you'll  go  the  other, 
and  we'll  meet.  Then  we  shall  do  it  in  half  the  time." 

The  entire  circuit  of  the  island  could  be  made  in 
twenty  minutes,  and  they  had  in  all  probability  many 
vacant  hours  before  them.  But  there  is  a  joy  in  saving 
time  even  when  it  is  a  very  little  time  and  you  have 
no  particular  use  for  it.  Old  gentlemen  of  an  obese 
habit  will  run  to  catch  a  train  on  the  Underground 
when  there  is  another  in  three  minutes,  and  then  there 
are  inquests. 

So  William  and  Isobel  encircled  the  island.  But 
they  found  no  trace  whatever  of  their  boat.  Isobel 
said  she  had  been  quite  sure  from  the  start  that  that 
would  never  do. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  know  what." 


LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND  259 

"Well.    What  Is  it?" 

"We  must  try  smoke-signals.  They're  often  used 
by  the  natives,  you  know." 

"Natives  of  where?" 

"How  should  I  know?  Just  plain  natives  you  get 
in  travel-books." 

"I  see,"  said  William  gravely.  And  then  they  set 
to  work  collecting  bracken  for  the  smoke-signal.  One 
of  Jefferson's  gardeners  was  to  see  it,  answer  it,  and 
start  to  the  rescue  at  once.  Of  that  Isobel  felt  quite 
sure.  In  the  meantime,  her  word  "travel-books"  had 
started  her  on  a  train  of  thought  as  she  gathered  the 
bracken. 

"Willy,  dearest,"  she  said  suddenly,  "we  ought  to 
have  a  barrel  of  pickled  pork,  very  little  injured  by 
the  sea-water.  People  always  have  that  on  desert 
islands." 

"They  do,"  said  William.  "It  is  washed  up  from 
the  wreck.  They've  lost  their  parents  in  the  wreck, 
but  they  don't  think  nearly  so  much  about  losing  their 
parents  as  about  finding  that  barrel.  However,  it's  no 
good  complaining.  We've  got  no  pickled  pork  and 
no  sea- water  to  damage  it  with." 

"We've  got  no  wreck,"  said  Isobel,  "that's  the 
initial  mistake.  When  you're  cast  upon  a  desert 
island  you  have  the  wrecked  vessel  fixed  firmly  on 
the  adjacent  coral  reef.  That  is  so  in  the  story-books, 
and  it  comes  in  very  usefully,  for  that  wreck  does  not 
stop  at  pickled  pork.  Anything  you  want,  from  a 
steam-crane  to  a  toothpick,  is  washed  out  of  the  cap- 
tain's cabin  and  delivered  safely  on  the  beach  at  your 
feet  next  morning." 

"Yes,  I  know  that  wreck.  It's  a  gratis  Whiteley, 
with  the  tide  as  the  vans." 


260        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"I  don't  know  that  I  don't  miss  the  patent  desert 
island's  animals  even  more.  You  know  those  animals? 
They're  wild,  but  not  so  very  wild.  When  George, 
or  any  of  the  desert-island  family,  gets  hold  of  them, 
they  become  rapidly  docile.  George  finds  a  hippo- 
potamus and  treats  it  kindly.  Next  day  it  is  still  a 
little  shy;  but  by  the  end  of  the  week  George  is  driv- 
ing it  tandem  in  a  curricle  (washed  up  from  the 
wreck,  of  course),  with  an  iguana  as  leader." 

"What's  an  iguana?" 

"Haven't  the  faintest  idea;  but  I'm  pretty  certain 
I've  come  across  it  in  the  desert-island  stories.  We've 
got  nothing  of  the  kind  here.  We  haven't  even  got 
the  deep,  dark  forest  of  eucalyptus  and  opodeldoc, 
with  the  monkeys  swinging  in  it,  all  packed  with 
bread-fruit,  guava  jelly,  and  ripe  bananas.  Oh,  this 
is  nothing  of  a  desert  island,  and  I  don't  care  how  soon 
we  get  out  of  it !" 

"Varia  et  mutabilis  semper!  An  hour  ago  you 
didn't  care  how  long  we  stopped  here." 

"Yes,"  said  Isobel;  "but  there's  a  difference  be- 
tween stopping  because  you  want  to  stop  and  stopping 
because  you  can't  get  away.  Here,  we  must  have  got 
enough  bracken  for  our  fire  by  now." 

William  struck  a  match.  The  dry  fern  blazed 
freely,  and  a  column  of  smoke  went  up  on  the  still 
air.  But  no  answering  signal  came  from  the  main- 
land, and  gradually  they  realized  that  their  fire  had 
not  been  seen,  or  had  not  been  understood.  Isobel 
strained  her  eyes  to  see  a  boat  being  rowed  towards 
them,  but  no  boat  came. 

"This  begins  to  be  a  nuisance,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"It's  nearly  seven,  and  I  am  simply  faint  with  hunger 
and  fatigue." 


LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND  261 

"What  a  fool  I  was  to  let  you  tire  yourself  with 
gathering  that  bracken,"  said  William.  "However, 
I'll  bring  up  the  rug  and  the  tea-basket,  and  we  must 
do  the  best  we  can.  Very  likely  your  smoke-signal 
was  seen,  and  they're  on  the  way  to  us  by  now." 

"On  the  way  to  us?  They'd  have  been  here  by 
this  time.  You  said  yourself  we  shouldn't  get  off 
before  to-morrow,  and  I  don't  for  a  moment  suppose 
we  shall  get  off  then.  It  gets  frightfully  cold  at  night 
too.  Never  mind;  it  can't  be  helped.  It  was  silly 
of  me  to  let  you  arrange  things,  that's  all." 

Decidedly,  fatigue,  hunger,  and  disappointment 
were  doing  deadly  work  with  Isobel's  temper. 


ii 


"LUCKILY,"  said  William,  as  he  unscrewed  the  stopper 
of  the  bottle,  "when  one  goes  on  a  tea-picnic,  one 
always  takes  far  too  much  milk.  That  milk  will  be 
very  useful  now.  Milk  is  a  food,  you  know;  one 
doesn't  starve  when  one  has  milk." 

"Who  says  that  milk  is  a  food?" 

"The  doctors  say  so." 

"Well,  I  say  milk  is  not  a  food.  Milk's  a  drink. 
You  drink  it;  you  don't  eat  it.  How  can  it  be  a 
food?" 

William — good-natured  and  pusillanimous — said 
that  the  doctors  were  very  likely  wrong;  doctors  often 
were. 

"And  there's  only  about  a  teacupful  of  it,"  said 
Isobel. 

"I  never  touch  milk  myself,  except  in  tea,"  lied 


262         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

William.  "It  makes  me  ill.  Lots  of  men  are  like 
that." 

"I'm  almost  certain  I've  seen  you  drink  it." 

"Never.  Unfortunately,  we  used  all  the  tea  at 
tea-time.  In  fact,  we  seem  to  have  used  everything. 
There  are  a  few  biscuits,  and — ah!  any  amount  of 
butter." 

"How  many  biscuits  will  there  be  each  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  spoil  my  dinner  by  eating 
anything  now." 

"There  isn't  going  to  be  any  dinner,"  said  Isobel, 
in  tones  of  the  deepest  melancholy. 

"We  shan't  get  it  for  two  or  three  hours,  perhaps, 
but  I'm  certain  we  shall  get  it  ultimately.  We'll  get 
off  this  accursed  island  somehow.  Cheer  up,  Isie!" 

Isobel  did  her  best  to  smile  faintly.  She  let  herself 
be  persuaded  into  drinking  all  the  milk  and  eating  all 
the  biscuits,  and  her  conscience  smote  her.  She  was 
a  very  good  girl,  and  as  a  rule  her  conscience  had  little 
to  do;  so  on  the  rare  occasions  when  her  conscience 
did  get  to  work,  it  did  not  always  work  in  the  most 
approved  manner.  Here,  for  instance,  it  urged  her 
to  prove  that  she  was  quite  right. 

"I'm  quite  sure,"  she  said,  "that  you  think  I'm  in 
a  horribly  bad  temper,  Willy." 

William  laughed.  "Not  a  bit  of  it.  Naturally,  this 
isn't  much  fun  for  you." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself,"  said  Isobel,  with, 
I  fear,  a  touch  of  the  Christian  martyr  in  her  voice. 
"I  was  thinking  about  poor  mamma  and  the  others. 
How  terribly  anxious  they'll  be!  Have  you  thought 
of  that?" 

"Yes;  but  they  won't  have  begun  to  be  anxious 
yet.  They  won't  begin  to  be  really  troubled  before 


LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND  263 

nine.  We've  been  late  for  dinner  before  sometimes, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  and  they've  talked  to  us  about  it.  And  we 
promised  that  we  would  never  be  late  again." 

"Well,  it's  not  really  our  fault  this  time." 

"We  know  that,  of  course,  and  our  own  people  will 
know  it  too,  and  believe  it.  But  will  the  rest  of  the 
people  in  the  hotel  believe  it,  or  will  they  believe  we 
did  it  on  purpose?  It's  horrible!  It's  compromis- 
ing!" 

"We've  been  engaged  a  year.  We  are  to  be  married 
next  month." 

"That  doesn't  stop  people's  tongues." 

"There  are  lots  of  ways  of  stopping  people's 
tongues,"  said  William  darkly. 

By  this  time  Isobel  had  quite  justified  herself  in 
her  own  mind  and  believed  that  she  had  a  legitimate 
cause  for  grievance. 

"It's  really  rather  too  bad,"  she  said.  "Naturally, 
I  leave  you  to  manage  everything.  One  always  leaves 
it  to  the  man.  Then  you  bring  me  to  this  horrible 
place,  and  then  you  go  and  lose  the  boat.  And  you 
don't  seem  to  have  the  faintest  idea  what  to  do  to  get 
us  away  again.  An  emergency  like  this  is  a  test,  and 
you  really  don't  come  out  of  it  very  well.  It  destroys 
one's  confidence.  One  doesn't  feel  that  one  can  de- 
pend on  you  to  get  one  through.  You  can  only  just 
stand  there  and  talk." 

This  was  severe  on  the  island.  It  had  been  a  "frag- 
ment of  pure,  sequestered  nature" ;  it  was  now  a 
"horrible  place."  It  was  severe  on  William,  too,  for 
after  all  it  was  Isobel,  and  not  he,  who  had  lost  the 
boat;  and  if  he  did  nothing,  it  was  chiefly  because 


264        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

there  was  nothing  to  do.  Isobel  was  on  the  verge  of 
tears  and  at  her  consummate  worst. 

"I'm  most  awfully  sorry,"  said  William.  "I  know 
how  trying  it  must  be  for  you.  I'll  go  and  get  the 
stuff  together  for  another  fire;  it  will  show  up  better 
when  it  is  dark." 

"You  can  try  it,  of  course,"  said  Isobel  resignedly. 


in 


WILLIAM  went,  and  at  that  moment  his  luck  turned 
right  round.  At  first  he  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes. 
There  was  the  boat,  brought  back  by  the  queer  cur- 
rents of  the  lake,  drifting  quietly  along  as  if  it  had 
never  done  anything  wrong  in  its  life. 

"Isie!"  he  called.  "It's  all  right.  Come  along 
home." 

She  came  running  towards  him.  He  pointed  out 
the  boat. 

"Return  of  the  wanderer,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  but  it's  drifting  away  from  us.  And  even 
now  it's  quite  out  of  reach." 

"I'm  prepared  to  bet  one  hundred  pounds  to  one 
hayseed  that  it  is  not  out  of  my  reach,"  said  William. 
"Please  hold  my  coat  for  a  minute." 

He  waded  the  first  part  of  the  way  and  swam  the 
rest,  and  he  brought  back  the  boat.  As  he  stood  on 
the  shore,  panting  and  wringing  the  water  from  his 
clothes  as  well  as  he  could,  Isobel's  conscience  smote 
her  once  more,  and  by  this  time  it  had  got  into  thor- 
ough working  order  and  smote  hard  and  truly. 

"Willy!  You're  soaked,  and  you'll  simply  catch 
your  death  of  cold." 


LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND  265 

"Not  I.  Rowing  will  keep  me  warm.  If  you'll 
just  catch  hold  here,  I'll  fetch  the  basket  and  rug." 

When  he  came  back  he  found  her  repeating  with 
all  the  solemnity  of  a  Litany:  "I'm  a  beast.  I  am 
a  pig.  I  won't  forgive  myself.  I'll  never,  never,  never 
forgive  myself." 

"Hul— lo!"  he  exclaimed.  "What's  all  the  trou- 
ble?" 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  I'm  very  sorry.  You 
may  give  me  up  altogether  if  you  like.  It  would  only 
serve  me  right." 

"Afraid  I  can't.  Not  got  time,  for  one  thing. 
Tumble  in,  sweetheart.  All  right?  Off  we  go  then." 

As  he  pulled  hard  away  from  the  island  she  con- 
tinued :  "It  was  simply  splendid  the  way  you  brought 
that  boat  in.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  It  was 
magnificent.  And  to  think  that  you  did  it  all  for  the 
stupid,  spiteful,  cowardly  she-cat  that  I  am." 

"I  say,  don't  go  on  like  that,"  said  William,  "or 
you'll  make  me  laugh.  And  I  can't  laugh  and  pull  at 
the  same  time.  To  think  that  I  sneered  at  the  in- 
telligent Swiss  who  runs  our  hotel.  Shan't  I  fly  at  his 
warmed-up  garbages  as  soon  as  I  get  a  chance !" 

"I  do  wish  you  hadn't  gone  into  the  water  like 
that." 

"It  won't  do  me  any  harm,  and  it  will  do  us  col- 
lectively good.  It  proves  that  we  really  did  lose  the 
boat" 

"You're  an  angel!" 

And  luck  having  now  decided  to  take  the  lovers  in 
hand  did  the  thing  thoroughly  well.  They  tucked 
the  boat  up  in  its  little  home  by  the  edge  of  the  lake, 
and  took  the  path  up  into  the  main  road;  and  they 


266        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

had  hardly  reached  the  road  before  they  heard  behind 
them  the  sound  of  a  quick-trotting  horse. 

'That's  Vera!"  exclaimed  William.  "Must  be." 
The  horse  and  cart  swung  round  the  corner  into  sight. 
"By  Jove,  it  is!  Hi,  there!  Tom!" 

Vera  was  a  fast  mare  belonging  to  the  proprietor. 
William  always  maintained  that  the  intelligent  Swiss 
must  have  stolen  her,  on  the  grounds  that  the  Swiss 
would  never  have  bought  so  good  an  animal,  and 
nobody  would  have  been  fool  enough  to  give  her  to 
him. 

The  man  pulled  up,  and  William  helped  her  up  into 
the  cart.  "You'll  be  home  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour," 
he  said. 

"But  aren't  you  coming  too  ?" 

"Too  wet;  I'll  run  for  it  I  shan't  be  long  after 
you." 

On  his  arrival  he  found  that  she  had  already  estab- 
lished for  him  a  serviceable  reputation  as  a  hero  and 
a  genius.  As  the  utmost  of  his  exploit  was  that  he 
had  swum  a  few  yards  in  his  clothes  and  recognized 
a  horse,  he  felt  that  he  had  obtained  the  reputation 
at  a  very  moderate  cost. 

The  hotel  dinner  was  over,  but  the  intelligent  Swiss, 
susceptible  to  the  beauty  of  Isobel  and  the  long  purse 
of  her  father,  did  wonders.  They  dined  well,  under 
the  admiring  supervision  of  Isobel's  family.  The 
Swiss  produced  with  an  air  of  mystery  a  very  special 
bottle.  "No,"  he  said  to  William,  "zat  is  not  on  ze 
vine  list.  It  is  not  filth,  zat.  I  haf  drunk  him  myself." 

And  Isobel  explained  to  her  mother  that  if  you 
were  in  a  railway  collision,  a  colliery  explosion,  a  ship- 
wreck, and  an  earthquake  simultaneously,  you  were 
quite  all  right  so  long  as  you  had  William  with  you. 


LOVERS  ON  AN  ISLAND  267 

"If  I'd  been  with  anybody  else  I  should  have  been 
sitting  on  that  darling  little  island  without  any  dinner 
at  this  moment." 

The  length  of  the  swim  increased  and  multiplied 
exceedingly.  By  the  end  of  dinner  it  was  represented 
that  William  had  swum  half-way  across  the  lake.  She 
also  proved  that,  but  for  William,  there  would  have 
been  no  cart  to  take  her  swiftly  home  from  the  lake. 
I  do  not  know  how  she  did  this,  because  the  cart 
would  have  overtaken  her  in  any  case,  and,  even  if 
she  had  not  recognized  the  horse,  the  man  Tom  would 
certainly  have  recognized  her,  and  pulled  up.  So  I  do 
not  know  how  she  did  it ;  but  she  did  it,  and  with  such 
enthusiasm  as  to  convince  all  who  heard  her,  with  the 
solitary  exception  of  William  himself.  He  protested 
frequently  and  firmly,  until  he  found  that  he  was 
merely  earning  another  reputation  for  excessive  mod- 
esty. Then  he  gave  up. 

But  it  was  pleasant  to  sun  himself  in  his  lady's 
favor  once  more. 


IV 


LONG  after  Isobel  had  gone  to  bed  William  sat  in  the 
hotel  smoking-room  consuming  many  cigarettes  and 
listening  to  the  converse  of  an  aged  angler. 

Now  the  angler  was  a  cynic,  which  is  not  wonderful. 
While  the  angler  is  not  catching  fish — that  is,  for  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  the  time  that  he  is  trying  to 
catch  them — he  has  leisure  for  meditation,  and  his 
meditations  are  likely  to  take  a  bitter  tone.  But  I  do 
not  know  why  all  cynics  are  extremely  liable  to  say 
things  about  women;  there  seems  to  be  no  reason 
for  it. 


268        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

The  aged  angler's  principal  opponent  was  the 
dyspeptic  clergyman  whom  William  and  Isobel  had 
dignified  by  the  name  of  the  Reverend  Father.  But 
to-night  the  Reverend  Father  had  gone  to  bed  early 
in  a  state  of  harassing  doubt  as  to  whether  it  had 
been  wise  of  him  to  take  a  second  helping  of  ice  pud- 
ding. Consequently,  the  aged  angler  had  room  to 
spread  himself,  and  he  talked  on  the  subject  of  women. 

"You  will  never  find  in  any  woman,"  he  cried 
dictatorhlly,  "a  really  perfect  sense  of  truth  and  jus- 
tice. Even  the  best  of  them  have  not  got  it.  The 
best  woman  in  the  world  will  blame  her  husband  for 
what  is  really  rank  bad  luck  and  not  his  fault  in  the 
very  least.  If  the  train  in  which  they  are  travelling 
breaks  down,  and  she  has  a  few  hours  to  wait,  she 
always  feels  and  acts  as  if  her  husband  was  in  some 
way  responsible." 

"But  then,"  said  William,  "she  also  praises  and 
loves  her  husband  for  his  good  luck,  for  which  also  he 
is  not  responsible.  One  injustice  cancels  the  other, 
and  they  both  go  out,  and  so  no  harm's  done." 

"You  really  think  like  that?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is  that  you  have  no  proper  sense 
of  justice  yourself." 

"Very  likely,"  said  William.  "And  I'll  bet  you  the 
want  of  it  doesn't  keep  me  awake  at  night.  Good 
night,  everybody." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  aged  angler,  when  William 
had  gone,  "we  have  to  take  into  account  that  he's  very 
much  engaged  to  be  married.  Poor  chap!" 


XXV 

THE  HERO  AND  THE  BURGLAR 

ON  the  ninth  day  of  the  honeymoon,  being  at  the 
time  in  the  presence  of  his  wife,  Mr.  Herbert 
Fayle  broke  a  bootlace.  And  that  settled  it.  From 
that  time  forward,  onward,  and  upward,  through 
twenty  years  of  happy  married  life,  Mrs.  Fayle  enter- 
tained an  immutable  opinion  of  her  husband's  poten- 
tial ferocity  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  facts.  Her 
sister,  who  once  ventured  to  suggest  that  Herbert  was 
not  so  very  terrible,  was  treated  with  superiority. 

"You  would  naturally  think  so,  Clara.  That  quiet 
manner  of  Herbert's  is  very  deceptive.  You  see,  you 
have  never  seen  Herbert  when  he  is  roused.  I  have. 
I  remember  one  occasion,  quite  early  in  our  married 
life,  when  the  storm  broke."  This  was  the  occasion 
when  the  bootlace  also  broke.  "I  assure  you  I  shall 
never,  never  forget  it." 

Mrs.  Fayle  used  Herbert's  potential  ferocity  to  over- 
awe her  erring  servants.  This  she  did  with  singular 
persistence,  perfect  confidence,  and  no  success  what- 
ever. "If,"  she  would  say  to  a  careless  housemaid, 
"Mr.  Fayle  had  seen  the  way  the  drawing-room  was 
dusted — or,  rather,  not  dusted — this  morning,  I  trem- 
ble to  think  what  might  have  happened."  The 
servants  did  not  tremble.  They  knew  better.  Mrs. 
Fayle  was  away  once  for  a  month,  and  her  husband 

269 


270        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

was  left  in  the  house.  During  that  month  the  servants 
had  the  time  of  their  lives.  Mr.  Fayle  was  vaguely 
conscious  that  he  could  never  get  any  hot  water,  and 
that  there  were  many  horrid  irregularities;  but  the 
only  time — it  was  when  dinner  was  an  hour  late — he 
had  ventured  to  inquire  why,  he  was  told  that  the 
dog  had  got  out.  This  satisfied  Mr.  Fayle  thoroughly, 
and  made  him  ashamed  that  he  had  spoken.  The  dog 
got  out  quite  a  good  deal  while  Mrs.  Fayle  was  away, 
and  so  did  the  servants;  and  if  one  of  them — not  the 
dog — missed  the  last  train  back,  then  why,  as  the 
cook  observed,  did  those  railway  companies  want  to 
go  altering  their  time-tables  about  ? 

The  fact  is  that,  in  an  international  competition, 
Herbert  Fayle  would  have  been  awarded  first  prize 
and  champion  gold  cup  for  sheer  meekness.  But  his 
wife's  belief  in  her  husband's  brutally  heroic  qualities 
remained  unshaken.  The  high  opinion  that  so  many 
women  have  of  their  husbands  frequently  has  no  basis 
in  facts,  but  it  is  always  touching,  and  sometimes 
useful. 

Herbert  Fayle  lived  a  peaceful  life  in  a  quiescent 
suburb,  and  the  heroic  quality  that  is  never  required 
is  never  missed.  But  let  us  do  Mr.  Fayle  justice.  He 
did  protest,  with  all  the  strength  that  congenital  meek- 
ness would  allow,  against  any  excessive  estimate  of 
his  militant  character.  "I'm  a  good-tempered  man," 
he  said.  And  he  was.  It  was  only  after  the  incident 
in  which  Joshua  Bidder  was  concerned  that  he  gave 
up  the  struggle. 

Joshua  Bidder  was  a  burglar,  and  a  disgrace  to  his 
profession.  He  knew  nothing,  he  could  do  nothing, 
he  was  intemperate,  and  he  had  nerves.  He  was  un- 
skilful and  unfortunate;  he  had  frequently  been  in 


THE  HERO  AND  THE  BURGLAR     271 

prison,  and  he  never  had  anything  to  show  for  it.  He 
was  despised  by  his  own  fraternity.  "The  only  time 
Bidder  ever  got  anything,"  said  one  able  and  scientific 
crook,  "was  once  when  he  broke  into  a  place  where 
they  had  the  mumps."  If  a  job  of  peculiar  softness 
was  to  be  described,  it  was  said  that  Josh  Bidder 
himself  couldn't  hardly  miss  it.  Police-court  mission- 
aries had  done  their  best  with  Bidder,  and  so  had  the 
Salvation  Army,  but  nobody  was  more  eager  to  get 
Joshua  to  stop  it  than  the  old-established  burglars 
were.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  brought  the  profes- 
sion into  contempt;  his  bungling  often  gave  warning 
and  spoiled  a  chance.  "Look  'ere,  Josh  Bidder,"  said 
an  elderly  expert,  at  the  present  moment  eligible  for 
entertainment  at  the  State's  expense,  "if  ever  I  catches 
you  tryin'  anythink  as  I've  a  mind  to  touch  myself, 
I'll  just  put  your  lights  out !  You  turn  your  attention 
to  sneakin'  milk-cans  on  a  foggy  mornin' — that's  all 
you're  fit  for !" 

Failure  and  ignominy  having  driven  him  from  the 
metropolis  Mr.  Bidder  went  to  the  suburbs.  Here  he 
hung  about  and  peeped  over  walls,  and  attracted  the 
notice  and  suspicion  of  the  local  police.  His  face  alone 
was, almost  enough  to  justify  arrest.  Dogs  would  go 
two  miles  out  of  their  way  to  bite  Bidder,  and  do  it 
cheerfully.  The  most  credulous  of  maid-servants  at 
the  back  door  refused  to  believe  his  preposterous  state- 
ment that  he  was  a  travelling  photographer,  and  un- 
chained the  dachshund. 

When  Joshua  Bidder  decided  that  on  the  night  of 
August  2.  he  would  enter  and  ransack  the  residence 
of  Herbert  Fayle,  it  might  have  seemed  to  the  careless 
observer  that  he  had  at  last  struck  the  line  of  least 
resistance.  But  a  judicious  burglar  would  have  dis- 


272         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

covered  that  the  Fayles  were  leaving  for  their  holiday 
on  the  following  day,  and  that  on  the  afternoon  of 
August  2  their  plate  and  jewels  had  been  safely  de- 
posited in  the  strong-room  of  the  local  bank.  And 
the  judicious  burglar  does  not  crack  empty  nuts. 

On  the  evening  of  August  2  Joshua  was  in  a  position 
of  affluence  which  was  unusual  with  him,  having  that 
morning  succeeded  in  changing  a  bad  half-crown. 
This  being  so,  Joshua  entered  a  public-house  and  took 
a  light  dinner,  consisting  of  a  quart  of  stout  with 
sixpenny  worth  of  gin  in  it.  He  felt  that  this  gave  him 
heart  for  the  work  before  him.  It  cannot  be  necessary 
to  add  that  the  judicious  burglar  does  not  drink  when 
he  is  on  business,  and  does  not  provide  evidence  by 
entering  public-houses.  Briefly,  he  does  very  few  of 
the  things  that  Joshua  did. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  entered  the  garden  of  the 
Fayles'  residence.  Standing  with  his  flat  feet  on  a 
Jacoby  geranium  he  surveyed  the  house,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  everybody  was  in  bed  and 
asleep.  If  he  had  walked  round  to  the  other  side  of 
the  house  he  would  have  seen  that  one  room  on  the 
first  floor  was  still  lit  up ;  but  Joshua  was  not  a  glutton 
for  physical  exertion,  and  he  did  not  walk  round.  He 
pushed  back  the  catch  of  the  scullery  window,  removed 
his  boots,  opened  the  window,  and  entered.  He  should 
not  have  left  his  boots  in  the  garden,  but  the  table- 
knife  procedure  was  quite  correct.  He  struck  a  silent 
match,  and  by  the  light  of  it  made  his  way  into  the 
dining-room.  That  fatal  dining-room!  Many  a 
burglar  far  abler  than  Joshua  has  found  in  the  dining- 
room  the  graveyard  of  his  reputation. 

Joshua  now  switched  on  the  light.  He  noted  with 
pleasure  decanters,  a  siphon,  and  glasses.  "Anybody 


THE  HERO  AND  THE  BURGLAR     273 

would  think  they  were  expectin'  of  me,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  poured  out  half  a  tumbler  of  whisky,  and 
took  a  comfortable  chair.  He  intended  to  take  just 
that  one  drink  and  to  come  back  for  the  rest  after  he 
had  made  his  collection.  But  in  five  minutes  he  was 
fast  asleep. 

In  his  study  upstairs,  Mr.  Herbert  Fayle  had  heard 
nothing  of  Joshua's  entrance.  Fayle  was  a  tidy  man, 
and  he  was  arranging  and  putting  away  his  papers 
preparatory  to  his  departure  on  the  morrow.  This 
being  done,  he  felt  thirsty,  and  decided  to  go  down 
to  the  dining-room  for  a  whisky-and-soda.  Repre- 
hensible conduct  of  this  kind  was  very  unusual  with 
Mr.  Fayle. 

He  noticed  the  light  under  the  dining-room  door, 
and  made  a  mental  memorandum  to  ask  Mary  to 
speak  to  the  servants  about  their  carelessness.  Then 
he  opened  the  door,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him. 
The  sleeping  Joshua  was  a  horrifying  and  repulsive 
blackguard.  Herbert  Fayle  decided  that  his  right 
course  would  be  to  close  the  dining-room  door  as 
softly  as  possible,  so  as  not  to  wake  the  burglar,  and 
then  to  fetch  one  or  more  policemen.  But  at  that 
moment  Joshua  suddenly  awoke,  realized  Herbert 
Fayle,  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 

Joshua  was  not,  speaking  pedantically,  sober.  But 
he  pulled  himself  together  as  well  as  he  could  and 
embarked  hurriedly  on  a  story  which  he  believed  to 
be  plausible. 

"Sorry,  guv'nor,"  said  Joshua.  "My  mistake  en- 
tirely. I've  been  dinin'  with  a  few  genelmen  friends 
— HI'  gel's  birthday — and  lorst  me  way  'ome.  What 
I  expect  is  I  put  the  wrong  latch-key  in  my  pocket 


274        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

and  the  trine  took  me  past  my  right  station, 
and " 

Joshua  stopped  short.  He  had  suddenly  grasped 
an  important  fact — that  the  other  man  was  much  more 
frightened  than  he  was.  In  two  lurches  he  put  himself 
between  Mr.  Fayle  and  the  door,  and  changed  his 
manner. 

"Hand  over  your  ticker  and  your  cash,  or  I'll  cut 
your  liver  out!"  said  Joshua  fiercely,  producing  his 
table-knife. 

Mr.  Fayle  retreated,  with  one  hand  grasping  his 
watch-pocket,  and  with  fourpence  and  a  bunch  of  keys 
jingling  alluringly  in  his  trousers'  pocket,  took  up  a 
strong  position  behind  the  dining-room  table,  and  said : 
"Now,  steady  now.  Steady  now.  Steady  now. 
Really  now.  Steady  now." 

Joshua  brandished  his  knife  and  overbalanced  him- 
self. He  clutched  at  things  in  general,  and  brought 
the  tray  of  whisky  and  glassware  to  the  ground,  with 
himself  on  the  top  of  it.  His  uninviting  face  was  cut 
considerably,  and  the  noise  was  such  that  it  woke  the 
sleeping  Pomeranian  in  its  basket  on  the  second-floor 
landing. 

"Yap — yap — yap — yap — yap!"  said  the  Pom.  Its 
varied  excursions  had  been  useful  to  the  servants,  and 
now  it  was  rendering  splendid  service  to  Mr.  Fayle 
himself.  The  dog  is  the  friend  of  man. 

Joshua  Bidder,  picking  himself  up  from  the  ruins, 
heard  the  dog  and  recognized  the  force  of  its  argu- 
ment. He  had  been  bitten  before,  and  now,  in  the 
presence  of  any  dog,  his  backbone  turned  to  water. 
He  had  just  time  for  a  little  parting  sarcasm  as  he 
made  for  the  window. 


THE  HERO  AND  THE  BURGLAR     275 

"So  long,  ole  pal!"  said  Joshua.  "Sorry  I  cawn't 
stop.  Remember  me  to  the  missus." 

He  flung  up  the  window  and  stepped  out  on  to  the 
drive.  As  he  did  so  a  large  black  thing  jumped  out 
of  darkness  and  collared  Joshua  by  the  neck  and  the 
left  wrist.  And  the  bass  voice  of  the  large  black 
policeman  said :  "  'Ere,  where  do  you  think  you're 
comin'  to?" 

"Fair  cop,"  said  Joshua  humbly. 

Inside  the  dining-room  Mr.  Herbert  Fayle  heard 
the  comforting  voice  of  the  policeman,  and  saw  in  a 
flash  that  pursuit  was  now  deprived  of  any  attendant 
disadvantages.  So  he  went  in  pursuit  at  once,  and 
the  way  he  came  through  that  window  with  a  poker 
clasped  in  one  hand  was  perfectly  glorious. 

"It's  all  right,  sir,"  the  policeman  called,  as  he 
clicked  the  handcuffs  on  Joshua's  wrists.  "It's  all 
right;  I've  got  him  here."  He  flashed  his  bull's-eye 
over  Joshua's  lacerated  visage.  "My  word,  sir,  but 
you've  given  him  what  for,  and  no  mistake !" 

"Bit  of  a  rough  and  tumble,"  said  Mr.  Fayle  com- 
placently. 

"Lucky  for  him  I  got  him  before  you  come  up  with 
that  poker.  You'd  have  done  for  him,  sir." 

"I've  bin  cruelly  mis'andled,"  whined  Joshua.  "If 
there  ain't  one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the 
paw,  'e  should  be  made  to  awnswer  for " 

"Hold  your  jaw!"  said  the  policeman  unfeelingly. 

And  then  Mrs.  Fayle  and  the  dog  arrived  on  the 
scene,  the  former  in  a  dressing-gown,  and  both  agi- 
tated. Mrs.  Fayle  clung  to  her  husband,  and  the  dog 
clung,  by  its  teeth,  to  Joshua.  The  dog  being  removed, 
explanations  followed. 

Mrs.   Fayle's  account  of  the   incident   was   based 


276        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

partly  on  the  policeman's  account — Mr.  Fayle  gave 
him  a  sovereign  afterwards,  and  I  think  the  man  had 
earned  it — and  partly  on  Joshua's  account,  and  partly 
on  feminine  intuition.  With  a  view  to  a  possible 
mitigation  of  his  sentence,  Joshua  continued  to  main- 
tain that  he  had  been  grievously  assaulted.  Mrs. 
Fayle  could  get  very  little  out  of  her  husband,  and  he 
shirked  questions,  but  that  was  quite  easy  to  under- 
stand; these  brave  men  are  often  so  modest  and  reti- 
cent about  what  they  have  done. 

"Fortunately,"  said  Mrs.  Fayle  to  her  sister  Clara, 
"the  Dobsons'  gardener  saw  the  man  as  he  entered, 
thought  he  seemed  a  very  suspicious  character,  and 
just  mentioned  it  to  the  next  policeman  he  met.  The 
policeman  found  the  man's  boots  under  the  open  scul- 
lery window,  and  lay  in  wait  for  him.  And  if  he  had 
not  been  there,  Herbert  would  have  killed  that  man — 
killed  him!" 

"Would  he  really?"  said  Clara. 

"The  policeman  and  the  burglar  both  thought  so, 
and  they  knew.  Herbert  makes  light  of  it,  but  then 
that  is  his  way.  I  must  tell  you,  he  entered  the  dining- 
room  without  a  suspicion  there  was  anything  wrong, 
and  there  was  that  awful  man  crouching  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand  ready  to  spring  on  him.  Herbert  was  un- 
armed, and,  as  you  know,  he  is  not  a  big  man,  not 
nearly  as  big  as  the  burglar  was.  Without  an  instant's 
hesitation  he  picked  up  a  heavy  decanter  and  felled 
the  man  to  the  ground  with  it.  Then  there  was  a 
most  awful  struggle  between  them.  At  last  the  burg- 
lar managed  to  break  away  and  got  through  the  win- 
dow. Herbert  snatched  up  a  poker  and  dashed  after 
him.  As  I  say,  it  is  a  mercy  the  policeman  was  there. 


THE  HERO  AND  THE  BURGLAR     277 

The  people  who  have  never  seen  Herbert  when  he  is 
roused  simply  do  not  know  him." 

Herbert  protests  mildly  that  his  wife  exaggerates. 
But  he  would  sooner  wear  the  halo  of  the  hero  than 
give  the  exact  version  of  what  happened  between  him 
and  Mr.  Bidder. 


MORAL   STORIES 

I 

APPRECIATION 

ONCE  upon  a  time — or  even  oftener — there  was 
a  Desert. 

If  you  should  ever  want  to  make  a  desert,  this  is 
the  best  way.  Take  a  thousand  good  square  miles 
and  spread  thickly  with  sand;  throw  in  two  oases, 
a  nice  fresh  mirage,  a  dead  camel,  and  three  live 
Arabs;  and  serve  very  hot. 

But  this  particular  Desert  was  not  made.  It  came 
so.  It  had  always  been  like  that.  But  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  it  had  not  got  the  three  live  Arabs.  Its 
oases  were  rich;  its  mirage  was  in  perfect  working 
order;  the  sand  was  spread  very  thickly  indeed;  and 
the  camel  was  just  about  as  dead  as  any  reasonable 
camel  could  expect  to  be ;  but  there  were  no  live  Arabs. 
In  fact,  in  the  whole  of  that  vast  desert  there  was  no 
living  thing  of  any  kind. 

Don't  begin  to  blame  the  Desert  now.  It  knew 
perfectly  well  that  it  was  defective,  and  felt  it  very 
deeply.  A  desert  does  not  expect  to  be  densely  popu- 
lated, but  it  wants  some  living  things  of  some  kind. 
A  couple  of  jackals  and  a  mosquito  would  have  made 
this  Desert  quite  happy.  And  it  had  done  its  very 
best  to  attract  visitors.  Here,  for  instance,  is  an 

278 


APPRECIATION  279 

advertisement  which  it  inserted  in  "Bills  and  Clauses," 
which  I  need  hardly  tell  you  is  the  principal  political 
newspaper  circulated  among  the  birds : — 

"To  VULTURES  COMMENCING. — Before  building 
elsewhere  apply  to  Box  1460  at  the  office  of  this 
paper.  Useful  climate.  Good  water  and  large  free 
camel.  Sandstorms  twice  daily  during  the  season. 
A  fine  sunset  performs  every  evening." 

Now  if  you  read  that  carefully  you  will  see  that  it 
was  a  very  nicely  worded  advertisement.  Of  course, 
by  useful  climate  it  meant  unhealthful  climate.  But 
neither  a  climate  nor  a  sandstorm  can  kill  a  breakfast 
for  a  vulture  unless  there  is  something  to  kill.  Also 
only  one  camel  was  mentioned.  These  were  weak 
points,  and  I  expect  that  the  vultures  noticed  them, 
for  not  one  single  reply  to  its  advertisement  did  the 
Desert  get.  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  bird  that  gets 
more  real  aesthetic  enjoyment  out  of  a  good  sunset 
than  a  vulture  does;  but  if  it  gets  no  food  it  is  the 
habit  of  the  vulture  to  die,  and  when  a  vulture  is  dead 
its  enjoyment  of  things  becomes  considerably  lessened. 

In  desperation  the  Desert  put  another  advertise- 
ment in  "Under  the  Stripes,"  which,  as  you  are  prob- 
ably aware,  is  the  leading  society  journal  read  by 
tigers.  And  this  next  advertisement  I  cannot  defend 
at  all;  it  was  deliberately  untruthful;  it  makes  it  im- 
possible to  be  sorry  for  the  Desert  for  what  happened 
afterwards.  It  ran  as  follows : — 

"To  MAN-EATERS. — Oases  to  let  in  a  salubrious 
desert.  Nice  position.  Well-stocked  caravans  pass 
the  door  weekly.  Good  living  for  an  energetic  couple. 
Magnificent  sunsets  night  and  morning." 


280        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

This  was  all  very  wrong.  The  desert  was  not  salu- 
brious; no  caravan  ever  came  near  it;  and  though 
the  sunset  was  magnificent  it  was  engaged  for  evening 
performances  exclusively.  A  tiger  will  always  walk 
twenty  miles  to  see  a  really  enjoyable  sunset,  and  one 
came  to  the  Desert  to  investigate.  He  arrived  in  the 
morning,  and  asked  to  see  the  Sunset.  The  Desert 
said  it  was  just  over.  Then  he  asked  to  see  the  tracks 
of  the  caravans,  and  the  Desert  explained  that  this 
kind  of  caravan  didn't  leave  any  tracks.  The  Desert 
showed  the  tiger  into  the  best  oasis  in  the  place,  but  he 
grumbled  and  said  he  couldn't  eat  cold  camel,  and  the 
whole  thing  was  a  swindle,  and  he  should  have  his 
money  back.  He  left  at  once. 

And  that  very  day  the  Sunset  turned  sulky.  He 
said  he  was  absolutely  dead  sick  of  giving  perform- 
ances to  empty  houses.  "What  I  should  like,"  he  said, 
"would  be  a  few  artists,  sitting  round  on  camp-stools. 
Other  sunsets  get  it." 

"Oh,  but  not  in  a  place  like  this,"  said  the  Desert. 
"We  haven't  the  facilities." 

"Seems  to  me  you  haven't  got  anything  except 
sand.  I've  known  sunsets  that  hadn't  got  a  color 
scheme  that  I  wouldn't  have  been  ashamed  of,  and 
yet  they've  got  into  the  Academy.  Last  night  I 
brought  out  an  arrangement  in  crimson  and  purple, 
lovely  enough  to  make  a  company  promoter  weep, 
and  it  was  absolutely  wasted.  It  takes  all  the  heart 
out  of  one's  work.  I  shall  give  it  up." 

"Pray  don't  say  that,"  said  the  Desert  excitedly, 
well  knowing  that  the  Sunset  was  its  only  attraction. 
"You  may  not  be  able  to  get  a  range  of  hills  to  work 
on,  such  as  we  provide,  if  you  go  elsewhere.  And 
without  a  nice  low  range  of  hills  you  can't  get  your 


APPRECIATION  281 

effects  properly.  You  see,  the  artists  may  come  yet. 
You're  doing  very  well,  and  they're  bound  to  hear  of 
you  sooner  or  later.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  in  a 
month  or  two's  time  all  this  sand  here  was  simply 
crawling  with  artists." 

"Wouldn't  it?"  said  the  Sunset  sardonically. 
"Well,  it  would  surprise  me.  However,  I  won't  make 
a  point  of  artists,  but  I  do  say  that  I  must  have  an 
audience  of  some  kind.  If  I  could  have  a  dozen  in- 
telligent vultures  and  a  few  tigers  of  taste  I  wouldn't 
leave  you." 

"There  was  a  tiger  here  only  this  morning." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  keep  him?  You  know  that 
I  never  give  matinees.  Now  listen  to  me.  I've  some- 
thing specially  fine  for  to-night.  It's  an  opal  and  gold 
and  gray,  with  quick  changes.  It's  quite  the  finest 
thing  I've  ever  done.  It  ought  to  last  for  about  an 
hour.  If  you  can't  find  some  living  thing  to  see  it — 
and  love  it — and  nearly  cry  over  it,  you'll  get  no  more 
performances  out  of  me.  That's  definite  and  final." 

And  that  night  the  Desert  was  illumined  with  the 
finest  sunset  that  there  has  ever  been  since  the  world 
began.  But  no  eye  saw  it,  and  all  its  gentle  miracles 
of  beauty  were  like  a  lovely  voice  singing  in  an  empty 
house. 

Next  day  there  was  no  sunset,  and  in  its  despair  the 
Desert  gave  up  being  a  desert  altogether.  The  sand 
was  sold  by  auction  to  different  seaside  resorts  to 
make  beaches  with.  And  I  don't  know  what  became 
of  the  dead  camel  and  the  other  things.  But  the 
Desert  had  to  begin  life  all  over  again  as  a  corkscrew, 
and  how  it  became  a  corkscrew  it  would  take  too  long 
to  tell  here.  Besides,  I  can  imagine  that  you  are 
already  impatient  to  get  to  the  moral. 


282        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

And  this  moral  you  shall  remember  whenever  you 
read  a  book,  or  look  at  a  picture,  or  listen  to  music. 
It  is  this :  "Without  appreciation  there  is  no  per- 
formance." Or,  if  you  would  like  it  put  differently: 
In  the  genesis  of  a  work  of  art,  its  creator  is  its 
father,  but  it  has  many  mothers — those  that  under- 
stand it;  and  without  them  it  could  not  exist.  It 
is  quite  true  that  you  have  helped  to  make  every 
story,  every  music,  and  every  picture  that  you  have 
liked  intensely ;  but  you  will  never  get  paid  for  it. 


II 

THE  PHILOSOPHER 

THERE  was  once  a  man  who  obtained  at  an  early  age 
the  reputation  of  a  philosopher.  He  had  an  impres- 
sive way  of  telling  people  that  things  were  not  what 
they  seemed,  and  of  proving  that  any  conclusion  at 
which  they  had  naturally  arrived  must  ipso  facto  be 
wrong. 

One  summer's  day  as  he  strolled  through  the  fields 
he  found  a  maiden  stretched  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
face  downward,  weeping  bitterly. 

"Maiden,"  he  said,  "tell  me  why  you  weep.  For 
I  am  a  philosopher,  and  haply  I  may  be  able  to  ad- 
minister to  you  words  of  salutary  consolation." 

At  this  the  maiden  sat  up  and  showed  her  face. 
And,  behold,  her  face  was  as  plain  as  a  motor  omnibus ; 
and  with  much  emotion  the  end  of  her  snowy  nose 
had  become  rosy  and  phosphorescent. 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  the  maiden,  "I  weep  because  the 
gods  have  given  everything  to  my  sister  Lesbia — and 
to  me  nothing  at  all." 

Then  the  philosopher  sat  down  beside  her.  "Let 
us  first  see,"  he  said,  "if  the  facts  are  as  you  state 
them.  For  it  happens  not  infrequently  that  things 
are  not  what  they  seem.  What  is  it  then  that  the 
gods  have  given  to  your  sister  and  not  to  you  ?" 

"Beauty,"  said  the  girl,  "and  beauty  is  everything. 
Lesbia  is  the  loveliest  creature  in  the  world.  Her 

283 


284        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

chestnut  hair  is  so  long,  so  profuse,  so  delightful  in 
its  waves,  that  she  gains  an  honorable  subsistence 
by  exhibiting  it  in  a  shop-window  as  an  advertise- 
ment for  a  hair  tonic.  Her  eyes  are  gray  and  long- 
lashed,  and  heavenly.  She  is  a  little  pale,  but  it  be- 
comes her;  and  her  fragrant  lips  are  scarlet." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  philosopher.  "But  it  happens 
at  times  that  with  the  beautiful  face  there  goes  an 
uncomely  figure." 

"It  is  not  so  with  Lesbia.  Every  curve  of  her  body 
is  a  poem.  She  is  full  of  grace.  Artists  rave  about 
her.  And  I — alas,  I  have  no  beauty  of  any  kind." 
And  once  more  the  maiden  fell  a-weeping. 

"Stop  that,"  said  the  philosopher  sternly;  "you 
weep  without  reason;  would  you  rather  have  a  gift 
that  you  can  keep  or  a  gift  that  is  taken  from  you?" 

"Certainly,  a  gift  that  I  can  keep.  Who  would 
not?" 

"Very  well,  then.  The  gift  of  the  gods  to  your 
sister  is  illusory.  It  is  no  gift,  for  it  will  be  taken 
away  again.  The  years  will  rob  her  of  her  beauty. 
Old  age  will  wither  and  twist  and  bend  her  body. 
Now  then,  can  you  make  the  omelette  aux  fines 
herbesf 

"I  can,"  said  the  girl;  but  with  no  pride  in  it. 

"In  forty  years  you  will  still  be  able  to  make  the 
omelette  aux  fines  herbes.  That  is  a  gift  which  brings 
comfort,  and,  in  consequence,  gratitude  and  popu- 
larity ;  and  it  does  not  fade.  Are  you,  perhaps,  fonder 
of  reading  than  your  sister  is?" 

"Lesbia  does  not  care  for  it.  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
have  a  library  subscription  at  the  cash  chemist's." 

"There  you  are,"  said  the  philosopher  triumphantly, 
"you  are  in  commune  with  the  greatest  minds  of  all 


THE   PHILOSOPHER  285 

ages.  You  have  the  power  of  culture.  It  is  undying, 
it  is  the  finest  solace.  Now,  with  regard  to  the  sewing- 
machine." 

"I've  got  one,  and  use  it — Lesbia  won't  touch  it." 

"More  and  more  your  gifts  are  being  revealed,  and 
they  are  all  of  the  precious  character — far  better  than 
your  sister's  fleeting  and  worthless  beauty.  Never 
say  again  that  the  gods  have  neglected  you.  Weep 
no  more.  You  have  all  for  which  a  wise  man  looks 
in  the  partner  of  his  life." 

And  then  the  philosopher  saluted  and  left  her;  and 
the  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  began  to  feel  more  pleased 
with  herself. 

But  presently  she  was  conscious  that  the  philoso- 
pher had  turned  back  towards  her  with  a  notebook 
open  in  his  hands. 

"Beg  pardon,"  he  said,  a  little  sheepishly,  "but  what 
did  you  say  was  your  sister's  address  ?" 


Ill 

THE  LIFE  OF  A  BUBBLE 

THE  small  girl  came  out  of  the  house  with  a  well- 
founded  idea  that  the  people  inside  did  not  par- 
ticularly want  her.  She  had  also  with  her  a  bowl  of 
soapsuds  and  a  pipe  wherewith  to  blow  bubbles.  For 
solitude  must  have  its  solace.  She  was  plain,  but  obed- 
ient; good,  but  gooseberry-eyed.  She  found  a  clear 
ring  in  the  middle  of  the  orchard;  the  grass  grew  long 
there;  the  sense  of  remoteness  was  in  the  air.  It  was 
desperately  wild  and  fine.  There  she  sat  down  and 
began  bubble-blowing.  The  first  two  attempts  failed. 
The  third  was  magnificent.  She  gave  a  little  shake 
to  the  pipe,  and  the  beautiful  iridescent  globe  mounted 
slowly  in  the  perfectly  still  air. 

"That,"  said  the  small  girl,  "is  a  ripper." 

The  point  of  view  of  the  human  being  who  regards 
the  bubble  and  the  point  of  view  of  the  bubble  as  it 
regards  the  human  being  present  certain  well-defined 
differences  in  matters  of  detail. 

"I  have  been  since  the  beginning  of  the  universe," 
said  the  bubble  to  itself.  "I  exist  now,  I  shall  exist 
for  ever.  This  present  experience  comes  back  to  me 
as  something  imperfectly  remembered  from  very  long 
ago.  It  is  unpleasant.  To  be  so  near  a  material  earth, 
nearer,  perhaps,  than  I  have  ever  been  before,  is  a  kind 

286 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  BUBBLE  287 

of  contamination.  It  seems  to  throw  a  film  of  corrup- 
tion over  one.  Luckily  the  feeling  passes.  The  ma- 
terial earth  sinks  slowly  back  into  the  abyss  from 
which  it  has  risen,  while  I  remain  stationary  and  per- 
manent." 

The  gooseberry  eyes  of  the  plain  little  girl  watched 
the  bubble  very  intently.  How  slowly  it  rose !  Would 
it  clear  that  branch?  Oh,  for  a  breath  of  wind  to 
toss  it  high  up,  that  it  might  sail  far  away  out  of  her 
sight  and  that  she  might  not  witness  its  breaking! 

"Yes,"  said  the  bubble,  "it  is  so.  I  observe  even 
now  that  my  unpleasant  environment  is  fading  away 
from  me.  The  girl  with  the  gooseberry  eyes,  and  the 
indifferent  cracked  bowl  of  an  advertised  soap,  and 
the  vast  masses  of  uninteresting  green  leaves,  are 
sinking  slowly  back  into  their  abyss.  Material  influ- 
ences begin  to  lose  their  hold  upon  me.  I  am  now 
almost  as  fine  and  spiritual  as  I  have  ever  been.  The 
only  thing  that  really  troubles  me  is  that  I  cannot  probe 
the  mystery.  Have  small,  plain  girls  a  use  in  being? 
Is  there  any  purpose  or  design  about  those  vast  masses 
of  green  leaves  ?  Is  soap,  however  advertised  and  how- 
ever perfumed,  part  of  any  great  scheme  tending  ulti- 
mately to  the  help  and  the  progress  of  myself  or  of 
my  brothers?" 

The  plain  girl  listened  intently.  She  thought  she 
heard  a  voice.  She  would  have  obeyed  the  call,  for 
she  would  have  obeyed  anything.  She  had  been 
brought  up  to  it.  She  had  a  dim  and  rather  dismal 
conviction  that,  when  she  went  in,  it  was  necessary  to 
send  her  out  again;  but  that  if,  of  her  own  volition, 
she  went  out,  it  then  became  necessary  to  fetch  her  in. 
These  were  things  beyond  argument,  things  that  be- 
longed to  the  great  powers,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  peo- 


pie  in  the  house.  But  she  had  heard  nothing ;  it  was  a 
mistake;  she  was  not  to  be  fetched  in  just  yet.  So 
she  could  go  on  watching. 

The  smoke  from  the  chimneys  came  sluggishly  up 
through  the  oily  air  under  a  hot  leaden  sky.  The 
bubble  was  far  away,  just  above  the  smoke,  not  yet 
out  of  sight. 

"Yes,"  said  the  bubble,  "I  do  feel  distinctly  better. 
That  nauseating  sense  of  grossness  which  was  caused 
by  proximity  to  material  things  is  completely  passing 
away.  But  ought  one  to  be  nauseated?  Would  not 
one  be  happier  if  one  could  believe  that  such  things 
did  not  exist  at  all,  that  they  were  merely  subjective— 
the  bad  dreams  to  which  a  bubble  may  now  and  then 
be  liable?  In  any  case  they  pass  as  a  dream.  An  all- 
merciful  destiny  that  designed  the  universe  for  the  use 
of  bubbles  arranged  that  all  right." 


The  burning  sun  of  noon  stole  out  from  the  leaden 
clouds.  Its  glory  fell  full  upon  the  bubble.  A  drop  or 
two  of  soapy  water  flicked  the  tail  of  a  sparrow  flying 
below  it. 

"It's  burst!"  cried  the  girl,  in  a  sad  ecstasy. 

A  voice  came  from  the  outer  and  more  civilized 
portion  of  the  orchard. 

"Where  are  you,  Miss  Jane?  You  come  in  this 
minute!  Always  where  you  oughtn't  to  be,  aren't 
you?" 

The  girl  who  was  always  where  she  ought  not  to  be 
went  in  that  minute. 

In  the  meantime  the  bubble  took  an  entirely  differ- 
ent view  of  the  situation.  The  poor  thing  had  not  the 
remotest  idea  that  it  had  burst. 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  BUBBLE  289 

"Yes,"  it  said,  "it's  quite  all  over  now.  I  am  per- 
fectly myself  again,  back  in  the  calm,  distant  ether 
which  suits  me  best.  More  than  ever  I  incline  to  the 
happy  view.  The  things  that  troubled  me,  the  girl 
and  the  soap  and  the  trees,  were  nothing  but  an  imag- 
ining." 


IV 
FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED 

CUSTOM  had  overcome  natural  antipathies,  and  all 
three  rested  in  peace  on  the  hearthrug — the  bull- 
terrier,  the  smoke-gray  cat,  and  the  mean-eyed  guinea- 

Pig- 

"That's  my  tail  you're  sitting  on,"   said  the  cat, 

rather  sharply. 

"Sorry,"  said  the  bull-terrier,  and  edged  away  a 
little.  The  guinea-pig  gave  one  quick  furtive  look  at 
both  of  them  and  then  shut  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  the  smoke-gray  cat,  "I  need  rest.  I've 
been  petted  all  the  morning.  You  can  have  no  no- 
tion what  it  is  to  be  loved  as  much  as  I  am." 

"Really,"  said  the  bull-terrier.  "Well,  I  don't  know 
about  that.  Of  course,  you  are  very  much  admired 
for  your  soft  fluff  and  your  graceful  attitudes,  but 
admiration  is  not  love.  One  cannot  get  love  that 
way." 

"How  do  you  get  it,  then?"  asked  the  cat,  a  little 
spitefully.  "I  suppose  you  do  get  it,  from  the  way 
you  talk." 

"Love,"  said  the  bull-terrier,  "is  the  reward  of  the 
more  solid  qualities.  Let  us  suppose,  for  instance, 
that  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  goes  out  for  a  walk 
by  herself  in  a  lonely  country.  If  she  is  accompanied 
by  a  dog  of  a  good  fighting  breed  she  feels  absolutely 
safe.  Therefore  she  gets  to  love  that  dog.  She  must 

290 


FOR  VALUE  RECEIVED  291 

do  it.  It  is  logically  inevitable.  And  that  kind  of 
love  lasts  when  the  love  of  mere  beauty  fades." 

"You  believe  all  that  ?"  asked  the  cat. 

"It  certainly  ought  to  be  so,"  said  the  bull-terrier. 
"But  if  I  am  to  be  frank,  I  do  not  think  that  our  mis- 
tress loves  me  the  best." 

"Now  you're  talking  sense,"  said  the  cat. 

"Nor  does  she  love  you  the  best,"  added  the  bull- 
terrier. 

"I  must  admit,"  said  the  cat,  "that  it  has  sometimes 
crossed  my  mind  that  she  loves  George  the  best." 

George  was  the  guinea-pig.  He  was  plain,  even  for 
a  guinea-pig.  He  was  not  well-connected,  and  his 
moral  standard  was  very  low. 

"That  is  so,"  said  the  bull-terrier  sorrowfully. 
"Just  wake  him  up  and  ask  him  how  he  does  it." 

The  cat  gave  George  a  pat  on  the  head.  His  mean 
and  vicious  eyes  opened  quickly.  He  told  her  to  be 
more  careful  where  she  put  her  feet. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  cat.  "What  do  you  do  to 
make  our  mistress  love  you  better  than  she  loves  either 
of  us?" 

"I  am,"  said  George. 

"Yes.    You  are  what?" 

"Nothing.    I  merely  am.    It  is  enough." 

"You  have  neither  beauty  nor  grace,"  said  the  cat. 

"You  have  neither  strength  nor  courage,"  said  the 
dog. 

"But  I  am,"  said  the  guinea-pig.  "That's  all  that's 
necessary." 

Their  mistress  entered  the  room. 

She  picked  up  the  guinea-pig  and  kissed  him.  Then 
she  gently  moved  the  cat  and  the  dog  so  that  George 
might  lie  nearer  the  fire. 


292         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  when  she  had  left  the 
room. 

Then  a  sound  came  from  the  guinea-pig  which  might 
well  have  been  a  chuckle  or  might  have  been  a  snore. 

The  cat  went  fast  asleep  out  of  sheer  disgust. 

The  dog  sat  up  and  stared  into  the  fire  with  great 
solemnity,  and  blinked  and  thought.  He  then  made 
the  following  observation : 

"The  highest  price  that  is  paid  is  never  by  any 
chance  for  value  received." 


V 
OMNIA   VANITAS 

"WITH  your  kind  permission,"  said  the  Minstrel,  "I 
will  now  introduce  to  your  notice  my  celebrated 
apologue  on  the  vanity  of  human  wishes." 

"Surely,"  said  the  Princess,  "I  have  seen  or  read 
something  of  the  kind  before." 

"Hush !"  said  the  Minstrel.  "The  least  little  inter- 
ruption is  enough  to  put  me  out.  The  sensitiveness  of 
a  great  artist  is  finer  than  anything  you  can  imagine. 
What  would  you  say  if  I  were  to  be  unable  to  proceed 
with  that  apologue  ?" 

"I  should  forgive  you,"  said  the  Princess  simply. 

"I  will  render  forgiveness  harder  by  proceeding  with 
my  story.  There  was  once " 

"About  what  date?"  asked  the  Princess. 

"In  the  days  of  old,"  said  the  Minstrel  firmly. 

"As  usual,"  said  the  Princess,  and  a  slight  shade  of 
disdain  crossed  her  lovely  face. 

"We  shall  never  get  on  if  we  stop  to  talk  about 
every  little  detail  like  this.  There  was  once  in  the 
days  of  old,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  a  man  who 
could  have  everything  that  he  wanted." 

"Do  let  me  go  on,"  said  the  Princess.  "And  after 
he  had  got  everything  that  he  wanted  he  found  that 
he  did  not  want  it  at  all.  So  he  ended  up  just  as  he 
had  begun  before  he  started  on  the  gratification  of  his 
wishes.  And  the  moral  of  this  is,  that  all  little  boys 

293 


294        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

and  girls  should  be  content  with  that  station  of  life 
into  which  it  hath " 

"Wrong,"  said  the  Minstrel.  "Wrong  all  through. 
In  any  case,  am  I  telling  the  story  to  you,  or  are  you 
telling  the  story  to  me  ?" 

"A  little  of  each,"  said  the  Princess. 

"And  that,"  said  the  Minstrel,  "is  one  of  the  things 
that  I  particularly  dislike.  I  will  be  a  performer  if  I 
may.  I  will  be  an  audience  if  I  must.  But  I  will  not 
be  both  at  the  same  time.  With  these  few  words  of 
preface  I  will  now  proceed  to  tell  you  that  there  was 
once  in  the  days  of  old " 

"That's  the  third  time,"  said  the  Princess. 

"There  was  once  in  the  days  of  old,"  the  Minstrel 
repeated  firmly,  "a  man  who  could  have  everything 
that  he  wanted.  At  first  he  did  not  know  that  he  could 
have  everything  he  wanted,  and  so  he  became  an  actor. 
It  was  not  good,  but  it  might  have  been  worse." 

"He  might  have  been  a  minstrel,"  suggested  the 
Princess. 

"Quite  true.  It  might  have  been  worse,  or,  as  you 
say,  it  might  have  been  better.  As  it  was  he  was  an 
actor — just  a  medium  mummer  with  a  blue  chin  and  a 
high  opinion  of  himself,  but  with  no  idea  of  the  good 
fortune  that  was  awaiting  him.  One  day  when  he 
was  being  congratulated  by  his  friends  on  his  masterly 
creation  of  the  part  of  the  second  footman  in  the  new 
drama  entitled  'The  Wickedest  Woman  in  the  Cab 
Radius,'  he  shrank  modestly  from  the  compliments 
and  said  he  would  sooner  have  won  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo  than  have  played  Hamlet  at  an  almost  first- 
rate  suburban  theater.  This  was  the  first  intimation 
that  he  received  of  his  marvellous  destiny.  The  very 
next  day  he  did  win  the  Battle  of  Waterloo." 


OMNIA  VANITAS  295 

"Come  now,"  said  the  Princess,  "come  now;  you 
would  like  to  lie  down  for  a  little  and  rest,  then  per- 
haps you  will  be  able  to  think  of  something  which  is 
more  in  accord  with  ascertained  facts." 

"Did  I  say  that  this  was  an  apologue  or  did  I  not? 
Is  an  apologue  supposed  to  be  a  bald  record  of  facts  or 
is  it  rather  a  suitable  field  in  which  the  fancy  may 
soar?" 

"You  can't  soar  in  a  field,"  said  the  Princess.  "You 
can  get  buried  in  one.  Try  it.  No;  go  on  with  the 
story." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Minstrel.  "There  was  once 
in  the  days  of  old " 

"Stop!"  said  the  Princess,  now  justly  infuriated. 
"Go  on  from  the  point  where  you  left  off." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Minstrel  gloomily.  "This 
man  who  won  the  Battle  of  Waterloo  was  not  for  long 
satisfied  with  that  achievement.  He  enjoyed  it  thor- 
oughly, but  he  felt  that  more  might  be  possible.  One 
day  he  read  Gray's  'Elegy,'  and  having  looked  round 
to  be  sure  that  the  shorthand  reporter  was  present,  he 
took  a  nice  attitude  and  said  that  he  would  sooner 
have  written  that  poem  than  have  won  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo.  The  very  next  day  he  found  that  he  had 
written  Gray's  'Elegy.' ' 

The  Princess  groaned.  She  said  faintly  that  it  was 
of  no  use  talking. 

"I  pointed  that  out  some  time  ago,"  said  the  Min- 
strel severely.  "The  man  enjoyed  being  a  great  poet 
very  much,  but  he  thought  of  other  things  which  he 
would  also  like  to  be,  and  he  was  them.  He  thought  of 
things  that  he  would  like  to  have,  and  he  had  them. 
The  gratification  of  his  wishes  never  annoyed  him  at 


296        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

all.  He  never  prayed  that  he  might  go  back  again  to 
his  simple  cottage  and  his  work  on  the  farm." 

"You  said  he  was  an  actor,"  snapped  the  Princess. 

"I  did.  I  also  said  it  was  an  apologue.  That's  the 
beauty  of  an  apologue.  This  man  who  wrote  Gray's 
'Elegy'  was  fully  satisfied  with  the  fact  that  he  had 
got  everything  he  wanted  until  he  suddenly  realized 
that  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  abilities  and  he 
could  think  of  nothing  else  to  want.  That  was  ter- 
rible." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  about  it?"  asked  the 
Princess  sweetly. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Minstrel.  "It's  too  late  to  do 
anything.  The  man  cut  his  throat  and  went  mad." 

"You  got  that  in  the  wrong  order." 

"No,  I  haven't.  He  didn't  cut  his  throat  enough; 
that's  what  made  him  mad.  It  might  have  happened 
to  anybody.  He  is  now  in  an  asylum.  And  the  moral 
of  it  is  that  we  should  always  want  something." 

"I'm  glad  I  never  knew  that  man,"  said  the  Princess. 

"Madame,"  said  the  Minstrel,  "had  he  known  you 
he  would  have  still  had  a  want  unsupplied." 


VI 
THE   LOVE   PHILTER 

*MP 

ONCE,  in  a  remote  time  and  place,  the  materials  of  the 
usual  novel  presented  themselves.  A  man  had  fallen 
in  love  with  a  woman  and  the  woman  had  not  in  the 
least  fallen  in  love  with  the  man.  So  when  he,  look- 
ing particularly  handsome,  pleaded  his  cause  with  her, 
she  said  "No." 

Then  the  young  man  communed  with  himself.  He 
had  read  in  the  learned  books  that  women  are  by  na- 
ture coy,  and  that  their  "no"  not  infrequently  meant 
"yes."  So  he  waited  three  months,  then  again  en- 
treated, and  again  she  refused. 

Further  meditation  showed  him  that  it  was  abso- 
lutely essential  that  he  should  marry  this  woman.  It 
was  impossible  to  live  without  her.  If  the  gods  gave 
him  all  else  and  denied  him  that,  then  there  would  be 
no  pleasure  in  any  of  their  gifts.  This  being  so,  he 
thought  of  ways  and  methods  by  which  a  woman  might 
be  attracted.  The  first  that  he  tried  was  brilliance  and 
martial  achievements.  At  that  remote  period  there 
was  always  a  war  handy  for  those  who  wished  to  dis- 
tinguish themselves  in  this  way,  and  the  man  went  into 
the  war.  After  long  waiting  he  got  his  opportunity 
and  came  out  of  it  unscathed,  and  with  a  magnificent 
record  for  courage  and  skill  and  endurance.  Adorned 
with  the  equivalent  of  the  Victoria  Cross  prevalent  at 

297 


298        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

that  time,  he  returned  to  the  house  of  his  lady-love, 
and  she  would  not  see  him. 

He  was  equally  unsuccessful  when  he  held  out  to  her 
the  allurements  of  power.  All  his  wealth  and  all  his 
long  trains  of  slaves  impressed  her  not  at  all.  He 
bored  her  very  badly. 

Then  in  despair,  and  no  longer  trusting  to  his  own 
resources,  he  determined  to  take  counsel  of  a  wise 
woman  that  lived  seven  days'  journey  away.  He  went 
on  his  pilgrimage  on  foot,  and  because  he  could  not 
sleep  nor  weary  himself  he  made  the  journey  in  four 
days.  The  wise  woman  was  old  and  gray,  and  sat  hud- 
dled up  in  an  untidy  parcel.  When  she  saw  him  ap- 
proaching she  stretched  out  a  lean  hand. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "for  what  you  have  come.  You 
desire  the  lady  of  your  love." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  desire  that  and  nothing  else. 
I  desire  that  at  any  price.  What  would  you  have  me 
do,  what  would  you  have  me  give  you?" 

Then  he  showed  her  the  equivalent  of  his  bank-book 
prevalent  at  that  time,  and  she  went  over  it  with  care. 
But  she  said  that  she  would  take  everything,  all  that 
he  had;  all  his  treasure,  all  his  slaves,  and  in  return 
she  would  give  him  a  love  philter.  Then  he  most 
cheerfully  made  over  to  her,  by  the  equivalent  of  a 
deed  of  gift  prevalent  at  that  time,  the  whole  of  his 
possessions,  and  she  placed  in  his  hands  a  cup  of  green 
jade  containing  a  liquid  that  was  as  clear  as  water, 
and  that  shone  in  the  dark  as  though  it  had  been  fire. 

"See,"  she  said,  "that  the  lady  of  your  love  drinks 
of  this.  Then  will  she  love  you;  you  only;  you,  with 
her  whole  heart,  you  for  ever." 

Then  he  began  his  journey  home  again.  And  by 
this  time  he  was  fain  to  sleep,  and  weary  in  all  his 


THE   LOVE   PHILTER  299 

limbs.  But  for  his  great  longing  to  win  the  love  of 
the  woman  he  still  went  on  by  night  and  day.  And  as 
he  travelled  by  night  the  liquid  in  the  green  jade  cup 
gave  him  light  to  guide  his  footsteps.  But  at  the  last 
sleep  would  no  longer  be  denied.  He  stretched  himself 
on  the  sand  a  whole  hour,  with  the  cup  of  green  jade 
standing  at  his  head.  And  as  he  slept  the  only  person 
that  ever  came  into,  his  dreams  came  into  them  once 
more — the  woman  whom  he  loved.  And  in  the  dream 
she  said  to  him,  "You  are  coming  to  see  me." 

He  answered,  "Yes.  And  now  at  last  have  I  the 
means  to  overcome  your  hatred  to  me,  and  to  turn  it 
into  such  love  as  I  myself  have  for  you  and  ever  shall 
have." 

She  then  said : 

"You  have  been  to  the  wise  woman,  and  you  have 
bought  from  her  a  love  philter  that  she  alone  can 
make." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "For  the  liquid  gleaming  like  fire 
in  its  cup  I  have  given  all  my  possessions.  Do  you 
doubt  its  power?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  doubt  it  not.  If  I  drink 
thereof  I  shall  love  you  for  ever,  only  it  will  not  be  I, 
and  it  will  not  be  you." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  said. 

"If  I  love  you  not  now  and  love  you  after  I  have 
drunk  of  this  cup,  then  it  is  because  the  philter  and 
not  you  has  made  the  change  in  me.  It  is  a  trick,  a 
poor  deception  by  which  you  will  try  to  fool  yourself 
and  me." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "better  this  unhappiness  than  that 
happiness."  And  poured  the  philter  into  the  sand. 

And  when  he  awoke  the  cup  was  indeed  overturned, 
and  the  thirsty  sand  had  drunk  the  precious  liquid  to 


300        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

the  last  drop.  So  having  no  longer  any  hope  he  went 
back  on  his  way  home. 

And  as  he  approached  the  house  where  the  woman 
whom  he  loved  lived,  she  came  down  the  steps  towards 
him,  holding  out  both  her  hands. 

"I  watched  for  you  from  the  window,"  she  said. 
"A  few  nights  ago  I  dreamed  of  you,  a  strange  dream. 
You  lay  on  the  sands  asleep.  I  have  watched  ever 
since." 


VII 
DOING  GOOD 

IT  was  a  frosty  but  dull  morning.  The  fields  were 
shrouded  in  mist,  and  the  garden  looked  dead  and  des- 
olate. There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind,  not  a  leaf  that 
danced,  not  a  bough  that  swayed. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  rattling  and  whirring  in  the 
ivy  that  half  covered  the  house,  and  a  dozen  sparrows 
flew  out,  knowing  that  it  was  about  time  for  break- 
fast. They  separated,  and  sat  on  different  trees  that 
commanded  a  view  of  the  windows,  and  kept  a  look- 
out. From  time  to  time  they  shifted  their  positions 
impatiently,  but  they  did  nothing  practical  to  accele- 
rate that  breakfast.  They  left  that  to  a  bird  with  more 
initiative — a  bird  with  a  beak  and  a  red  breast. 

The  robin  came  with  a  dactylic  flight  down  on  to 
the  Duke  of  Connaught  immediately  in  front  of  the 
French  windows  of  the  dining-room,  where  he  could 
be  easily  seen  by  those  within.  He  chose  a  spray 
which  would  bend  gracefully  beneath  his  weight,  and 
turned  his  red  waistcoat  to  the  window.  He  looked  a 
perfect  Christmas-card  on  that  standard  rose,  and  he 
knew  from  experience  that  this  was  effective.  The 
trick  answered  once  more. 

A  white-haired,  genial  old  gentleman  opened  the 
windows  and  came  out.  He  had  a  Crown  Derby  plate 
in  his  hands,  and  the  plate  was  piled  high  with  crumbs ; 
he  scattered  the  crumbs  down  the  gravel  walk,  and  as 

301 


302         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

he  did  so  he  said,  "Chirrup."  He  said  it  several  times, 
and  the  birds  treated  it  with  the  contempt  it  deserved. 

An  old  lady  looked  out  of  the  window  and  said  in  a 
fat  and  warning  voice,  "Your  hat,  Charles."  And  the 
old  gentleman,  reminded  that  he  had  nothing  on  his 
head,  went  back  into  the  house  again. 

Then  the  birds  began  on  the  crumbs.  The  robin 
came  first;  he  had  no  more  occasion  to  make  play 
with  his  red  breast ;  it  was  his  other  weapon,  his  beak, 
that  came  in  useful  now.  He  took  a  crumb  and  pecked 
a  sparrow  alternately  with  great  regularity.  But  he 
was  outnumbered,  and,  finding  the  general  feeling  of 
the  meeting  was  against  him,  retired  with  the  biggest 
crumb.  After  all,  it  was  better  to  follow  the  gardener 
about  and  keep  near  the  potting-shed  during  the  din- 
ner-hour; gardeners  understood  the  tastes  of  robins, 
and  did  not  restrict  them  to  bread.  How  would  the 
old  gentleman  have  liked  it  if  he  had  nothing  but  bread 
given  him  for  his  breakfast? 

The  sparrows  were  quite  contented.  They  came  in 
from  all  directions ;  they  flew  fearlessly  to  the  crumbs ; 
they  hopped  cautiously  to  them,  jerking  down  the  gar- 
den path  with  a  light  run  and  a  quick  stop.  There 
were  plump  sparrows  that  had  been  here,  bless  you, 
longer  than  they  would  care  to  say,  and  had  had 
crumbs  all  the  time ;  there  were  ragged  vagabond  spar- 
rows that  had  dropped  in  out  of  nowhere,  swearing 
that  they  hadn't  tasted  food  for  a  fortnight.  They 
thieved  without  shame,  and  were  robbed  without  re- 
sentment. One  sparrow  would  select  a  morsel  of 
bread,  and  hop  off  with  it.  The  moment  he  put  it 
down  to  get  to  work  on  it,  another  sparrow  who  had 
followed  him  would  snatch  it  up.  "Got  him  again," 
the  thief  remarked,  with  satisfaction.  "Plenty  more 


DOING  GOOD  303 

where  that  came  from,"  replied  the  philosopher,  as  he 
hopped  back  to  the  heap  of  crumbs  again.  In  and  out 
among  the  brown  sparrows  went  what  would  have 
been  called  in  Kensington  shops  "a  pretty  little  article 
in  art  shades."  It  was  a  little  tomtit,  with  his  cap  on, 
making  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  and  the  peacock 
both  get  their  clothes  from  the  same  place.  Far  down 
the  path  a  fat  and  timid  thrush  watched  the  intrepid 
and  remunerative  work  of  the  little  birds  with  plain- 
tive wonder. 

The  old  gentleman  surveyed  the  scene  from  the 
window  for  a  moment,  smiling  with  pleasure;  for  he 
found  pleasure  in  doing  good  even  in  the  humblest  of 
ways.  And  at  the  same  time  the  cat  stepped  out  of 
the  back-kitchen  into  the  garden. 

He  was  a  big  cat,  white  splashed  with  black,  a 
mighty  hunter,  and  a  most  notorious  evil-liver.  Better 
to  him  the  mouse  or  bird  that  he  himself  had  killed 
than  the  cream  and  chicken  of  insipid  domesticity. 
He  told  himself  that  this  weather  was  the  very  devil. 
But  for  the  crumbs  and  their  consequences  there  would 
be  nothing  doing.  He  preferred  the  summer,  when 
there  were  so  many  young  birds  and  so  much  cover. 
He  had  meant  to  go  to  the  front  lawn  and  the  ad- 
joining paths  to  see  what  sport  could  be  got  there,  and, 
therefore,  being  a  cat,  he  started  off  in  the  opposite 
direction  towards  the  kitchen-garden.  That  is  part  of 
the  cat  strategy.  He  ambled  patiently  and  humbly 
along  as  if  he  had  been  a  tame  pony  drawing  a  load 
of  hymn-books  to  oblige  a  missionary.  He  paused  to 
look  into  an  empty  frame  and  found  nothing  there, 
which  was  just  what  he  had  expected,  and  then  turned 
his  attention  to  business.  In  two  minutes  he  was  on 
the  front  lawn;  but  the  birds  did  not  see  him  because 


304        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

he  had  hidden  himself  where  the  lowest  boughs  of  the 
big  cedar  touched  the  grass.  Three  noiseless  hops 
brought  the  cat  in  a  flash  to  the  box-edging  of  the  path 
where  the  birds  were  feeding.  He  pressed  himself 
close  to  it,  and  lay  motionless  but  for  the  extreme  tip 
of  his  tail,  which  was  rather  excited.  Then  slowly  he 
began  oiling  and  slithering  up  towards  the  birds.  Not 
one  hair  of  his  sinful  body  moved.  He  made  one 
spring,  and  he  had  sparrow  for  dinner. 

When  you  wish  to  do  good,  you  should  first  shut  up 
the  cat. 


VIII 
KIND  WORDS 

"KIND  words,"  said  the  Aunt,  "are  worth  far  more 
than  gold.  They  give  more  real  pleasure;  they  do 
more  real  good.  Try  to  remember  that,  Margaret 
Ursula." 

Margaret  Ursula  said  she  would.  She  was  a  good 
girl,  and  always  tried  to  do  what  she  was  told. 

She  thought  about  the  power  and  value  of  kind 
words  while  she  was  undressing  that  night,  and  while 
she  was  saying  her  prayers,  and  while  she  was  falling 
asleep.  And  that,  perhaps,  is  why  she  had  the  follow- 
ing extraordinary  dream.  I  tell  it  as  it  seemed  to  her. 

Margaret  Ursula  was  going  down  the  sunny  High 
Street  of  a  quiet,  provincial  town  that  she  knew  well. 
She  was  conscious  that  she  was  very  hungry,  and  that 
she  was  interested  in  what  she  saw — notably  in  a  cart 
laden  with  golden  sovereigns  and  drawn  by  many 
horses. 

The  jolting  of  the  cart  jerked  some  of  the  sovereigns 
into  the  gutter.  No  passer-by  took  the  least  notice. 
Margaret  Ursula  ran  after  the  cart  and  called  loudly 
to  the  driver  to  stop.  He  pulled  up  and  stared  sul- 
lenly. 

"You've  dropped  some  of  your  sovereigns,"  she 
said.  "Run  quickly  back  and  get  them.  I'll  hold  your 
horses  for  you." 

305 


3o6        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Idiot!"  said  the  man.  "Interfering,  fat-headed 
idiot!" 

"Really,"  said  Margaret  Ursula,  much  shocked, 
"that  is  not  a  very  kind  or  polite  way  to  speak  to  a 
girl  who " 

"Don't  come  begging  here,"  said  the  man  sharply. 
"I've  got  nothing  to  give  you." 

She  looked  amazed. 

"And  don't  stand  gaping  like  a  dying  fish.  Any- 
body, to  hear  you  talk,  would  think  we  lived  in  the 
days  when  this  rubbish  I'm  carting  away  was  worth 
something — the  days  before  people  really  knew  the 
value  of  kind  words." 

So  that  was  it;  the  world  had  moved  on;  compli- 
ments and  expressions  of  sympathy  had  taken  the 
place  of  coinage. 

That  did  not  seem  to  her  to  matter  much ;  it  came  as 
a  thing  that  she  might  have  expected.  What  did  mat- 
ter was  that  feeling  of  hunger — she  was  amazingly 
hungry.  She  turned  from  the  sullen  driver  and  walked 
quickly  on,  looking  into  the  shops  as  she  went.  Sud- 
denly she  stopped.  A  faint  smell  of  new  bread  and 
chocolate  floated  out  through  an  open  shop-door.  In 
the  windows  were  displayed  all  manner  of  delightful 
things  to  eat.  It  seemed  to  her  the  most  glorious  and 
noble  confectioner's  shop  she  had  ever  seen.  It  was  a 
bad  thing,  she  knew,  to  enter  a  confectioner's  shop  one 
hour  before  luncheon.  But  this  was  such  a  wonderful 
shop,  and  she  was  so  remarkably  hungry,  that  she  was 
tempted  to  enter. 

"Wipe  your  feet,  you  slut,  can't  you?"  screamed  the 
lady  behind  the  counter — a  pretty  lady,  too,  and  very 
nicely  dressed,  but  with  an  angry  face.  It  struck  her 


KIND  WORDS  307 

now  that  everybody  she  had  met  that  morning  had 
looked  cross  and  severe. 

She  wiped  her  feet  obediently,  and  said,  "My  shoes 
aren't  half  as  dirty  as  your  horrible  mat." 

Margaret  Ursula  had  always  been  a  polite  girl,  but 
now  she  had  an  overpowering  conviction  that  polite- 
ness was  extravagance. 

"Shut  up !"  shouted  the  lady  behind  the  counter. 

Margaret  took  a  large  cake  and  began  to  eat  it.  It 
was  pink  sugar  on  the  top  and  chocolate  at  the  bot- 
tom, there  was  cream  in  the  middle,  and  the  rest  of  it 
was  hot  strawberry  jam.  It  was  just  about  the  best 
cake  she  had  ever  eaten,  but  it  made  her  a  little  thirsty. 

"Lemonade,"  she  said  sharply. 

The  lady  behind  the  counter  gave  her  the  lemonade, 
and  at  the  same  time  observed  that  there  were  some 
people  she  disliked  on  sight.  Margaret  Ursula  drank 
the  lemonade,  which  was  delicious,  and  carefully  re- 
frained from  saying  "Thank  you."  Now  that  any  po- 
lite form  of  words,  intended  to  give  pleasure,  had  a 
purchasing  value,  one  was  careful  not  to  use  them  un- 
necessarily. The  time  had  now  come  for  Margaret  to 
pay  for  her  refreshments;  she  turned  to  the  lady  be- 
hind the  counter  and  said : 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  my  telling  you  what 
perfectly  beautiful  eyes  you've  got;  I  shall  never  for- 
get them." 

"Go  on,"  said  the  lady  behind  the  counter. 

"And  there's  something  in  your  face  that  makes  me 
think  that  at  some  time  you  must  have  gone  through  a 
great  tragedy."  Margaret  Ursula  knew  that  almost 
all  women  liked  to  be  told  that.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
these  two  astounding  compliments  were  sufficient  pay- 
ment, and  she  turned  to  go. 


308        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Come  back,  you  swindler!"  shrieked  the  lady. 
"You've  not  paid  for  your  lemonade." 

"Dear  me!  What  delightful  lemonade  it  was,  too! 
I  think  this  is  the  very  nicest  shop  I  was  ever  in.  I  do 
hope  you  will  make  a  great  fortune  in  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  lady,  and  gave  one  short 
smile.  Margaret  realized  that  she  had  paid  rather  too 
much  for  the  lemonade,  and  that  the  thanks  and  the 
smile  were  the  change.  "And  now,"  the  lady  con- 
tinued, "for  goodness'  sake  get  out  of  my  sight !" 

Margaret  Ursula  left  the  shop  and  entered  a  han- 
som. The  horse  immediately  began  to  kick  furiously. 

His  hoofs  went  rap,  rap,  rap.  "Come  in,"  said  Mar- 
garet Ursula,  rubbing  her  eyes  and  yawning. 

And  the  maid  came  in  and  drew  back  the  blinds  a 
little ;  and  Margaret  Ursula  was  awake  again. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Margaret  Ursula  at  breakfast, 
"that  it  is  quite  true  that  kind  words  are  worth  more 
than  gold." 

"Far  more,"  said  the  Aunt. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  said  Margaret  Ursula  medita- 
tively, "that  most  people  don't  know  that." 

"But  why?" 

"Well,  nobody  would  ever  say  anything  nice  to  you." 

"Occasionally,"  said  the  Aunt  severely,  "you  say 
things  that  surprise  me,  Margaret  Ursula." 


IX 

THE  WORTHLESS  STONES 

THE  two  men  who  had  been  eagerly  studying  the  lists 
of  situations  vacant  in  the  newspapers  of  the  free 
reading-room  came  out  dejected.  They  wore  frock- 
coats  and  silk  hats  and  patent-leather  boots,  all  in  the 
last  stage  of  decay. 

"May  as  well  go  and  sit  in  the  park,"  suggested 
the  elder. 

"It's  as  good  as  anything  else — or  as  bad,"  assented 
the  younger. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Smithson,"  said  the  old 
man,  as  he  took  his  seat  in  the  sun  and  gazed  reflec- 
tively into  the  interior  of  his  silk  hat.  "We  ought 
to  have  seen  this  coming.  We  ought  to  have  been 
prepared  for  it.  We  ought  to  have  had  something 
else  up  our  sleeve." 

"As  it  is,"  said  the  younger  man,  "we  are  abso- 
lutely at  the  end  of  everything.  I  haven't  got  a  penny 
in  my  pockets.  I  suppose  you  haven't  either,  Marks?" 

"No,"  said  Marks.  "I've  got  a  paper  of  Brazilian 
diamonds  of  the  first  water  and  I've  got  a  nice  little 
lot  of  pigeon's-blood  rubies.  A  year  ago  I  could  have 
got  about  fourteen  thousand  for  them;  to-day  if  I 
offered  them  in  exchange  for  a  penny  loaf  the  man 
would  laugh  at  me.  Yes,  Smithson,  we  ought  to  have 
seen  this  coming." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Smithson.  "No- 
309 


310         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

body  else  saw  it.  Why  should  they?  Ever  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world  precious  stones,  as  they  used 
to  be  called,  had  been  held  in  high  esteem.  It  was  so 
in  all  nations  and  all  ages.  What  reason  had  we  to 
expect  this  sudden  change  of  fashion,  this  sudden 
awakening  to  the  facts,  if  you  like  to  put  it  that  way?" 

"Because,"  said  Marks,  "we  might  have  argued  it 
out.  We  might  have  said  to  ourselves  that  the  game 
had  been  good  for  a  very  long  time  and  that  was  all 
the  more  reason  why  it  should  not  last  much  longer. 
If  we  had  just  put  to  ourselves  the  plain  question, 
Why  are  precious  stones  precious?  we  should  have 
made  provision  for  the  bursting  of  the  bubble.  They 
were  only  precious  because  a  lot  of  fools,  principally 
women,  chose  to  think  they  were.  It  was  purely  arbi- 
trary. There  was  nothing  else  in  it  at  all.  As  civiliza- 
tion went  on  people  were  bound  to  wake  up  to  the  fact. 
When  one  recalls  that  not  so  many  years  ago  any 
amount  of  capital  and  labor  was  being  expended  in 
South  Africa  and  elsewhere  in  order  to  get  some  bril- 
liant rubbish  out  of  the  ground  for  women  to  stick  in 
their  hair  or  to  put  round  their  necks,  why  it  simply 
seems  like  a  mad  dream.  It's  much  more  wonderful 
that  the  humbug  lasted  so  long  than  that  it  stopped 
when  it  did." 

Smithson  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  three  or 
four  beautiful  pearls,  spread  them  on  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  and  looked  at  them. 

"I  still  think,  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  there's  a 
kind  of  charm  about  these  things.  Of  course,  I  know 
that  they're  no  longer  worth  anything,  but  still  I've 
got  a  liking  for  them." 

"Simply  a  remnant  of  your  old  prejudice,"  said 
Marks.  "The  glass- workers  turn  out  much  prettier 


THE  WORTHLESS  STONES         311 

things.  They  get  more  variety  of  color  and  of  pat- 
tern. All  the  endless  worry  with  banks  and  safes  is 
done  away  with.  If  a  woman  loses  a  few  of  her  beads 
she  can  easily  go  to  the  nearest  shop  and  buy  another 
sixpenny  worth.  If  in  the  old  days  she  had  lost  a  few 
pearls  like  those  that  you  have  in  your  hand  there 
would  have  been  no  end  of  a  hullabaloo.  Columns 
and  columns  in  the  paper  about  it.  It  was  not  to  my 
interests,  of  course,  that  this  change  should  come. 
It  has  ruined  men  like  you  and  me.  But  it  has  done 
a  lot  of  good  as  well.  Think  of  the  amount  of  crime 
there  used  to  be.  Heaps  of  burglars  in  London  not 
so  long  ago  would  have  risked  their  freedom  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives,  and  perhaps  their  necks  as  well, 
to  have  stolen  the  rubies  that  I  have  got  in  my  inside 
pocket.  Women  were  bought  and  sold  for  those  toys. 
Nations  kept  vast  amounts  of  capital  locked  up  and 
unproductive  in  the  form  of  crown  jewels.  It  was  a 
rotten  system,  and  on  the  whole  it's  a  good  thing  that 
we've  done  with  it.  All  I  say  is,  we  ought  to  have 
seen  the  end  was  coming." 

"Look  here,  Marks,"  said  Smithson  sharply,  "don't 
say  that  any  more,  please.  See  ?  It  gets  on  my  nerves. 
When  a  man  has  made  an  almighty  fool  of  himself 
and  is  suffering  for  it  in  consequence,  it  doesn't  im- 
prove his  temper  to  have  somebody  keep  on  telling 
him  that  he  might  have  foreseen  what  would  happen. 
I'm  going  to  give  up  thinking  about  it  altogether.  The 
spring's  coming  on  now  and  gardeners  will  be  wanted. 
I  always  had  a  little  taste  that  way,  luckily,  and  I  may 
be  able  to  find  a  job  yet." 

"Ah!"  said  Marks,  "you  are  a  younger  man  than 
I  am.  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  happen  to  me." 
Absent-mindedly  he  drew  from  his  pocket  his  paper  of 


312         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Brazilian  diamonds  and  scattered  them  broadcast.  A 
few  sparrows  fluttered  down  and  went  away  disap- 
pointed. A  stern  park-keeper  came  up. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  sharply,  "I  can't  have  that 
mess  made  all  over  these  gravel  paths.  I've  a  jolly 
good  mind  to  make  you  pick  'em  all  up  again.  You'd 
better  clear  out,  you  two,  and  look  slippy  about  it." 


X 

GOLD 

THERE  was  once  in  the  Dark  Ages  a  boy  of  great 
ambition  and  solid  worth.  He  did  not  play  the  fool 
and  vex  his  teachers.  He  was  kind  to  cats.  He  did 
not  even  annoy  his  papa  and  mamma.  When  other 
boys  were  playing  at  tournaments,  damaging  their 
clothes,  and  sometimes  losing  their  tempers,  he  never 
joined  them.  He  sat  patiently  at  home  studying  the 
signs  of  the  zodiac  and  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  sim- 
ples. He  was  devoted  to  study.  His  brain  developed 
rapidly.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  had  a  forehead  like 
the  Albert  Hall.  This  made  other  boys  so  jealous  that 
they  threw  things  at  him,  but  he  did  not  care  because 
he  knew  he  was  doing  right.  He  had  great  ideas.  On 
the  whitewashed  wall  of  his  little  bedroom  he  wrote 
in  large  letters  "CONCENTRASHUN."  I  may  ob- 
serve in  passing  that  in  the  Dark  Ages  spelling  was 
more  a  matter  of  individual  taste  than  it  is  now.  His 
father  saw  what  his  little  son  had  done  and  took  the 
necessary  steps,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling  he  was 
spanking  a  boy  with  a  future. 

The  father  was  but  a  poor  armorer,  and  suffering 
severely  from  the  competition  of  a  big  cut-price  estab- 
lishment that  had  just  started  in  the  same  street.  But 
he  managed  to  scrape  together  enough  money  to  ap- 
prentice his  son  to  an  astrologer  and  general  alchemist. 

The  astrologer  said  frequently  and  emphatically  that 
313 


3H        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

he  had  never  had  a  better  or  more  studious  apprentice. 
Time  passed,  and  our  young  friend  was  no  longer  a 
boy.  He  was  a  youth,  and,  moreover,  he  was  a  youth 
whose  roomy  cranium  and  established  character  for 
steadiness  attracted  the  attention  of  the  maidens  of 
the  district.  Girls  then  were  very  much  as  they  are 
now.  They  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  youths  with 
a  certain  amount  of  devil  in  them,  however  handsome 
or  however  wealthy  they  might  be.  What  they  liked 
was  moral  worth  and  plenty  of  forehead.  So  they 
threw  shy  glances  at  our  young  philosopher  and  they 
asked  him  to  tea.  Likewise,  they  suggested  that  he 
should  take  part  in  some  amateur  theatricals.  Further, 
they  said  papa  would  be  so  glad  if  he  would  come  over 
and  smoke  a  pipe  with  him  one  night.  But  the  young 
man  would  have  none  of  it.  Other  apprentices  sug- 
gested that  he  should  take  part  in  games  where,  al- 
though skill  may  have  been  present,  chance  largely  pre- 
ponderated. But  he  remained  firm.  He  would  not 
make  love;  he  would  not  play  cards;  he  would  not 
come  out  and  have  a  drink ;  he  was  wholly  devoted  to 
his  work.  He  managed  to  scrape  up  enough  money 
(scraping  ran  a  good  deal  in  the  family)  to  take  twelve 
lessons  in  the  art  of  transmuting  the  baser  metals  into 
gold.  It  was  true  that  the  teacher  had  not  yet  discov- 
ered the  secret  himself,  but  there  was  always  a  possi- 
bility of  some  useful  hints.  Nowadays  the  guides  to 
success  in  journalism,  finance,  and  matrimony  are  al- 
most invariably  written  by  the  people  who  have  not 
attained  it.  The  world  has  really  changed  very  little. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  young  man's  de- 
votion to  the  study  of  the  great  secret  prevented  him 
from  close  attention  to  his  ordinary  business.  During 
the  whole  time  of  his  apprenticeship  he  made  only  one 


GOLD  315 

mistake.  At  the  end  of  his  apprenticeship  his  master 
offered  him,  and  he  accepted,  the  post  of  head  of  the 
horoscope  department,  and  still  every  moment  of  leis- 
ure was  given  to  study.  He  heard  the  music,  he  heard 
the  dance  go  on,  but  for  him  there  was  to  be  no  rest 
and  no  amusement  until  he  had  found  the  secret  which 
would  transmute  the  baser  metals  into  gold.  His  brain 
development  had  now  progressed  to  such  an  extent 
that  his  hats  had  to  be  specially  built  for  him. 

Years  passed  away  and  his  master  died.  On  his 
death-bed  he  called  the  studious  head  of  the  horoscope 
department  to  him  and  imparted  the  great  secret.  Our 
philosopher,  now  very  middle-aged,  went  straight  off 
to  the  kitchen  to  test  it  and  found  that  it  did  not  work. 
He  countermanded  the  order  for  a  wreath  of  everlast- 
ings with  "Mizpah"  on  it  and  refused  to  attend  the 
funeral. 

After  he  had  been  middle-aged  for  a  long  period  he 
became  old.  (Really  in  some  respects  the  world  has 
not  changed  one  little  bit.)  He  had  never  had  any 
love;  he  had  never  had  any  fun;  and  he  had  not  got 
the  secret.  It  was  very  dull,  but  one  must  admire 
his  strength  of  purpose.  He  went  on. 

The  secret  came  at  last  when  he  was  a  toothless 
dodderer,  and  it  came  by  accident.  He  sat  before  his 
furnace  with  a  biscuit-tin  which  he  had  just  converted 
into  22-carat  gold.  With  great  care  he  wrote  out  the 
long  and  elaborate  formula. 

Then  he  thought  about  it.  If  he  had  never  dis- 
covered the  secret  it  would  always  have  been  worth 
discovering.  But  now  what  could  it  do  for  him? 
Pleasure  was  a  closed  book  and  he  had  no  wants  that 
he  had  not  ample  means  to  satisfy.  The  discovery 
had  merely  stopped  his  work  and  spoilt  his  life.  He 


316        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

flung  the  formula  into  the  furnace  and  his  secret  died 
with  him. 

If  this  simple  story  leads  any  reader  to  the  convic- 
tion that  the  only  things  worth  having  are  the  things 
we  have  not  got,  it  will  not  have  been  written  in  vain. 


XI 
THE  PIG  AND  THE  JACOBY 

THE  garden  of  the  villa  was  tended  by  a  man  once  a 
week  and  to  some  extent  by  the  three  daughters  of  the 
house.  They  were  large,  healthy  girls  who  liked  ten- 
nis, easy  jokes,  occasional  tea-parties,  and  church  on 
Sundays.  None  of  them  was  plain,  and  the  youngest 
was  as  near  as  nothing  engaged  to  the  curate.  This 
tells  you,  or  ought  to  tell  you,  exactly  what  kind  of  a 
garden  it  was. 

You  know,  for  instance,  the  bed  cut  out  on  the 
smaller  lawn  between  the  front  of  the  house  and  the 
road.  You  are  aware  that  by  this  time  it  is  decently 
filled  with  the  Jacoby  geranium.  You  know  that  the 
bed  is  edged  with  blue  lobelia  or  with  pyrethrum,  and 
that  after  all  it  does  not  much  matter  which.  You 
can  hear  Agnes  laughing  in  a  strong  voice  of  no  musi- 
cal quality  at  the  back  of  the  house  because  her  sister 
Lilian,  in  running  back  for  a  ball  on  the  smooth-shaven 
tennis  lawn,  has  skidded  and  fallen  humorously.  You 
can  hear  Lilian's  retort  of  "you  are  a  beast" — words 
which  she  would  not  have  used  if  the  curate  had  been 
present.  But  you  do  not  know  what  those  patient 
geraniums  in  their  deadly  rows  thought  about  it  and 
other  things.  Therefore  listen. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  a  plant  which  was  rather 
taller  than  the  rest,  "we  are  quite  beautiful." 

"That's  no  use,"  said  a  miserable  starveling. 
317 


318         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

The  starveling  was  quite  the  smallest  of  the  Jacoby 
geraniums.  It  never  ought  to  have  been  sent  out  at 
all.  The  family  had  complained  about  it. 

"And  may  I  ask  why?"  said  the  tall  Jacoby. 

"Because  we  are  so  appallingly  common,"  said  the 
starveling.  "It  seems  to  me  that  it  saddens  the  warm 
onset  of  summer  to  think  how  many  Jacobies  just  like 
us  are  at  this  time  being  bedded  out  in  gardens  just 
like  this." 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  the  tall  geranium,  "we  pay  the 
price  of  our  popularity.  It  would  certainly  be  well  if 
only  the  better-grown  specimens  were  used." 

"Thanks,"  sneered  the  starveling. 

"I  meant  nothing  personal.  There  are  too  many  of 
us.  I  admit  it.  But  surely  our  popularity  is  proof 
positive  of  our  beauty.  It  is  a  comfort.  It  gives  us 
confidence.  It  enables  us  to  say  that  we  are  beautiful 
without  either  vanity  or  mock  humility,  without  ex- 
pressing our  own  opinion,  but  referring  to  the  concen- 
trated wisdom  of  generations  of  a  higher  race." 

"The  concentrated  wisdom  of  seventy  thousand  su- 
burban red-brick  clerk  boxes  with  a  small  strip  of 
ground  in  front  made  to  look  like  a  jam  tart  and  called 
a  garden,  and  with  a  tennis-lawn  for  Agnes,  Ethel,  and 
Lilian.  Another  scream — I  gather  that  that  poor, 
long-legged  child  has  gone  over  once  more." 

"I  can  understand  why  you  personally  should  be 
embittered.  For  myself  I  can  look  at  the  exquisite 
color  of  my  leaves  and  the  sanguine  glory  of 
my " 

The  telegraph  boy  who  had  called  earlier  in  the 
morning  had  left  the  front  gate  open — an  improper 
action,  but  common  to  all  telegraph  boys.  A  remark- 
ably fat  pig  who  had  escaped  from  somewhere,  with 


THE  PIG  AND  THE  JACOB Y       319 

no  other  motive  than  a  vague  desire  to  get  somewhere 
else,  strayed  into  the  garden.  It  thrust  what  it  confi- 
dently believed  to  be  a  loving  smile,  though  it  did  not 
look  it,  into  the  middle  of  the  geranium  bed. 

"Well,  my  little  friends,"  said  the  pig,  "and  what 
were  you  talking  about?" 

"Put  crudely,"  said  the  tall  geranium,  "it  sounds 
a  little  vain.  We  were  complaining  of  our  excessive 
popularity,  due,  no  doubt,  to  our  remarkable  beauty, 
but  having  a  distinct  tendency  to  lower  us  in  the  eyes 
of  the  fastidious  and  eclectic." 

"What  beautiful  words  you  do  use,"  said  the  pig, 
with  a  sigh  that  a  superficial  observer  might  have  mis- 
taken for  a  grunt.  "Would  that  I  had  some  of  your 
despised  popularity.  Men  give  me  nothing  but  foul 
food  and  grumble  that  I  am  a  foul  feeder.  They  keep 
me  in  the  dirtiest  places  and  complain  that  I  am  not 
nice  in  my  habits.  My  very  name  is  become  a  term  of 
reproach  and  contempt.  And  yet  I  go  on." 

"And  it  all  ends  in  dead  leaves,"  said  the  starveling. 

The  pig  shook  his  head.  "It  ends,  I  believe,  in 
ham." 

"We  all  have  our  cross  to  bear,"  said  the  tall  Jacoby, 
who,  like  all  vain  people,  had  a  streak  of  sentimentality 
in  her  disposition.  "Here  am  I,  a  well-grown  speci- 
men of  a  beautiful  plant.  I  know  it,  but  I  cannot  be 
happy  because  I  am  conscious  of  commonness.  Better 
the  outcast  that  is  rare  than  the  cherished  beauty  that 
is  common.  Here  I  must  sit  and  suffer  through  the 
long  summer  months  until  the  frosts  come." 

"Must  ?"  said  the  pig. 

"Absolutely  must,"  said  the  Jacoby. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  pig. 

A  few  moments  passed.     Lilian  came  round  from 


320        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

the  back  of  the  house  in  search  of  a  lost  tennis-ball. 
She  saw  the  pig  and  screamed  to  Ethel.  Ethel 
screamed  to  Agnes.  Agnes  screamed  because  it  was 
her  habit.  Then,  armed  with  rackets,  they  descended 
upon  that  pig.  He  went  out  of  the  garden  in  an  awk- 
ward, untidy  trot,  complaining  bitterly  of  injustice. 
They  chevied  him  a  little  way  down  the  road,  met  the 
curate,  and  were  much  ashamed.  He  walked  back 
with  them  to  the  house. 

"Dee-ah !  dee-ah !"  said  the  curate  in  his  refined  cler- 
ical voice,  as  he  stood  by  the  bed  of  Jacobies,  "that 
pig  has  destroyed  one  of  your  best  geraniums." 


XII 
THE  WRONG  ELIXIR 

IN  the  days  when  science  was  more  poetical  and  less 
scientific  than  it  is  now  there  lived  a  certain  alchemist. 
He  was  an  old  man.  His  feet  shuffled  and  his  knees 
doddered  as  he  walked.  He  had  the  gray  and  hairy 
face  of  a  sick  monkey.  His  knowledge  was  so  pro- 
found that  he  was  generally  respected,  and  his  temper 
was  so  abominable  that  he  was  intensely  unpopular. 
Therefore,  when  on  a  fine  morning  in  May  he  came 
down  to  breakfast  with  an  expression  approaching 
complacence  and  entirely  omitted  to  curse  the  cook 
(his  universal  procedure  before  taking  food),  his  wife 
and  family  were  surprised  and  a  little  nervous.  It  was 
so  unlike  him.  His  wife  asked  him  if  he  were  unwell. 
He  not  only  answered  the  question,  though  on  prin- 
ciple he  never  answered  his  wife's  questions  and  usu- 
ally affected  not  to  have  heard  her  speak,  but  he  even 
added  a  "thank  you"  to  his  "no."  She  was  the  more 
distressed  and  he  noticed  it.  He  never  thanked  any- 
body. It  portended  something  serious. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "that  the  studies  of  a  life- 
time culminated  last  night  in  a  discovery  which  I  be- 
lieve to  be  of  importance.  Hence  my  unusual  hilarity." 

Hilarity  was  perhaps  a  strong  word  for  it.  Yet 
even  a  great  and  tumultuous  joy  would  have  been 
comprehensible  considering  the  nature  of  his  discovery. 

"Is  it  the  philosopher's  stone?"  his  wife  asked. 
321 


322         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  overdo  his  vein  of  gra- 
cious light-heartedness.  He  stared  at  her  stonily  as  if 
she  were  something  in  a  bottle  which  he  had  already 
analyzed.  Then  he  shuffled  out  towards  his  laboratory. 

It  was  not  the  philosopher's  stone.  It  was,  if  pos- 
sible, an  even  greater  discovery,  for  in  the  elixir  which 
that  very  night  he  meant  to  taste  he  held  the  secret 
of  eternal  life.  Eternal  life  was  in  these  dark 'ages 
considered  desirable  by  quite  a  number  of  people.  He 
did  not  propose  to  communicate  his  secret  to  any  of 
his  fellows.  It  was  to  be  for  himself  alone.  They 
would  go  and  he  would  remain,  growing  slowly  into 
the  wonder  of  the  whole  world.  There  were  even  in- 
dications in  his  researches  that  made  it  seem  prob- 
able that  with  the  unlimited  years  of  his  life  there 
would  be  an  accession  of  youth.  His  hair  would  grow 
again  and  he  would  get  new  teeth  and  perhaps  learn 
once  more  the  meaning  of  the  word  romance.  Em- 
perors would  come  from  the  East  to  look  upon  him — 
the  one  man  in  the  world  who  held  the  secret. 

In  the  meantime  he  was  not  disposed  to  be  idle. 
His  ordinary  avocations  called  him.  A  gipsy-faced 
slut  of  a  girl  had  come  to  him  with  gold  pieces,  got, 
the  devil  knows  how.  The  alchemist  did  not  inquire. 
He  tested  the  gold  and  found  it  true.  "And  for  this  ?" 
he  asked. 

"There  is  a  man,"  she  said  in  a  tired,  uninterested 
way,  "who  has  got  to  die.  I  need  a  very  swift  poison 
and  one  that  leaves  no  trace  of  poison  in  the  body." 

"Painless?"  he  inquired. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  is  of  no  impor- 
tance," she  said.  He  begged  her  to  come  to  him  again 
in  three  days. 

He  was  a  man  of  vast  experience  and  had  no  trouble 


THE  WRONG  ELIXIR  323 

in  satisfying  the  simple  needs  of  the  gipsy  girl.  He 
took  one  drug  here  and  another  there.  He  blended 
and  cooked  and  strained.  When  he  had  finished  he 
had  a  pale  green  liquor  with  neither  taste  nor  smell. 
A  drop  of  it  would  have  killed  an  elephant,  and  a  gal- 
lon of  it  would  have  defied  the  best  of  our  modern 
chemists.  It  was  of  the  same  color  as  the  elixir  of 
life  which  he  himself  was  to  drink  that  evening. 

And,  of  course,  he  made  the  usual  mistake.  Pos- 
sibly he  had  primed  himself  with  strong  waters  to  give 
him  courage  for  his  experiment,  and  the  courage  had 
been  bought  at  the  expense  of  clear-headedness. 

At  any  rate,  he  reached  his  hand  to  the  wrong  glass, 
and  in  a  moment  it  was  all  over.  He  had  drunk  the 
poison  that  had  been  intended  for  the  gipsy  girl's  faith- 
less lover.  He  lay,  an  untidy  lump  of  clay-colored 
wornout  humanity,  on  the  studio  floor  with  a  fixed 
grin  on  his  face  that  would  have  frightened  people. 
His  wife  found  him  there  in  the  morning  and  wept 
bitterly,  and  was  sincerely  sorry  that  she  would  never 
hear  him  curse  the  cook  again.  There  was  a  glass 
filled  with  a  greenish  fluid,  and  this  she  threw  away, 
not  knowing  that  she  had  lost  here  the  discovery  that 
had  never  been  made  till  then  and  will  never  be  made 
again.  It  seemed  to  her  safer.  The  gipsy  girl  was 
annoyed,  but  said  nothing.  She  had  enough  money 
left  to  buy  herself  a  knife,  and  she  got  into  serious 
trouble  over  it. 

That  he  took  the  poison  was  undoubted.  That  he 
took  the  wrong  elixir  is  a  point  on  which  I  should  like 
to  have  the  dead  man's  opinion. 


XIII 
EVOLUTION 

AN  elderly  ape  perched  himself  comfortably  high  up 
on  a  tree  of  the  forest.  He  was  taking  a  rest  cure, 
and  he  had  a  large  bunch  of  bananas  by  his  side  for 
purposes  of  reference.  When  his  twinkling  eyes 
looked  downwards  into  the  heart  of  the  forests  it  was 
as  if  he  had  looked  into  the  night.  Something  moved 
in  the  darkness  below  him  and  tapped  politely  with 
a  stone  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree. 

"Are  you  at  home,  uncle?"  called  out  a  voice  from 
below. 

"You  may  come  up,"  said  the  elderly  ape,  without 
enthusiasm.  He  groaned  in  spirit.  This  young 
nephew  of  his  was  a  jabberer  and  a  general  nuisance, 
and  had  views.  It  was  certain  if  he  came  up  that  he 
would  talk.  Talk  to  that  elderly  ape  was  nearly  as 
bad  as  work.  Perfect  rest  and  bananas  as  near  per- 
fection as  he  could  get  them  were  the  things  that  at 
his  time  of  life  he  particularly  desired. 

"I  thought  I'd  just  look  in  as  I  was  passing,  uncle," 
said  the  younger  ape.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  interrupting 
you  at  your  luncheon  ?" 

"You  are  interrupting  me  at  my  breakfast,  which 
is  a  shade  worse." 

"Sorry.  I  see  you've  got  plenty  of  first-rate  bananas 
there." 

324 


EVOLUTION  325 

"Then  you  see  wrong,"  said  the  uncle.  "They  are 
second-rate.  I've  eaten  six  of  them  and  I  ought  to 
know.  And  I  have  not  got  plenty.  I  have  only  got 
just  enough  for  one." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  suggest  anything,"  said  the  young1 
ape  nervously. 

"A  nephew  who  suggests  that  he  wants  my  bananas 
intentionally  is  impertinent  but  shows  sense.  A 
nephew  who  makes  the  same  suggestion  without  inten- 
tion is  just  as  impertinent  and  is  a  blundering  fool  be- 
sides. Kindly  peel  that  banana  for  me.  I  am  tired 
this  morning  and  not  up  to  much  work." 

"With  pleasure,"  said  the  nephew  effusively.  "I 
suppose  you've  heard  of  the  great  news  in  the  scientific 
world?" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  uncle.  "And  be  a  little 
bit  quicker  with  that  banana.  Laziness  is  the  curse  of 
all  you  young  apes." 

"The  discovery  is  called  evolution." 

"Then  I  don't  believe  in  it,"  said  the  uncle. 

"But  you  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"That,"  said  the  uncle  majestically,  "is  immaterial. 
J  disbelieve  it  just  the  same.  I  disbelieve  it  on  the 
sound  of  it.  How's  your  mother  this  morning?" 

"Mamma  is  a  little  upset.  One  cocoanut  too  many 
last  night,  she  seems  to  think.  I  do  not  profess  to 
understand  the  arguments  in  favor  of  evolution  my- 
self. But  the  main  conclusions,  which  I  hear  are  gen- 
erally accepted,  are  that  the  different  forms  of  animal 
life  sprang  from  one  original  form,  some  kind  of  a 
fish,  I  believe.  We,  of  course,  stand  at  the  top  of  the 
scale,  and  we  were  evolved  from  man." 

"Is  this  the  kind  of  thing  that  your  parents  gave  you 
a  pious  education  for?"  asked  the  uncle  sternly. 


326        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

"Well,"  said  the  young  ape,  "I  always  try  to  keep 
abreast  of  modern  thought.  When  new  facts  spring 
up  and  they  are  proved  you've  got  to  believe  in  them." 

"You  may  have,"  said  his  uncle  contemptuously. 
"I,  on  the  other  hand,  have  not.  I  saw  you  only  the 
other  day  with  a  chimpanzee  of  known  bad  character. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  his  influence  which  makes 
you  talk  in  this  ribald  and  blasphemous  way." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  nephew.  "I  had  no  wish  to 
be  ribald.  What  I  say  is  that  you  must  face  facts. 
An  ape  has  been  discovered  in  some  part  of  Europe 
wearing  clothes  like  a  man,  using  a  knife  and  fork 
like  a  man,  sleeping  in  a  bed  like  a  man." 

"Then  he  should  be  sequestrated,"  said  the  uncle. 
"If  not  worse,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 

"Then,  again,"  the  nephew  urged,  "there  is  the  an- 
atomical argument.  The  shape  of  the  skull  of  a  man 
is  different  from  that  of  an  ape.  It  is  not  so  highly 
developed.  Now  the  shape  of  my  skull " 

"The  shape  of  your  skull,"  said  the  elderly  uncle, 
"will  undergo  some  material  alteration  in  a  minute 
if  you  insist  on  talking  this  nonsense.  I  tell  you  that 
man  could  never,  under  the  most  favorable  condi- 
tions, develop  into  an  ape.  We  are  as  far  above  him 
as  the  stars  above  the  trees.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  this  tree  could  evolve  into  a  fixed  planet?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  nephew  nervously.  "My 
argument  is " 

"Peel  me  another  banana,"  said  the  uncle,  "and  don't 
argue.  You  never  hear  me  argue.  I  tell  people  things. 
I  say  that  they  are  so.  That  is  enough.  There  is  no 
necessity  to  go  beyond  that.  Now  go  home  and  try  to 
live  a  better  and  cleaner  life  in  future,  and  if  I  ever 


EVOLUTION  327 

hear  that  word  evolution  from  you  again  I  will  knock  a 
considerable  hole  in  your  face." 

"All  I  wanted  to  urge " 

"Get  down  the  tree,"  roared  the  uncle. 

And  the  nephew  obeyed  promptly. 

As  he  slithered  and  scrambled  down  his  uncle  threw 
banana-skins  at  him  and  hit  him  every  time.  After 
that  he  gave  a  sigh  of  content  and  resumed  the  rest 
cure. 


XIV 
BLUE  ROSES 

THERE  were  once  blue  roses. 

It  was  long  and  long  ago,  and  even  then  the  blue 
roses  were  very  scarce.  There  was  but  one  bush 
growing  in  a  wood  near  to  a  royal  palace,  and  until 
the  flowers  were  in  bloom  it  looked  exactly  like  an 
ordinary  wild  rose.  But  children  playing  in  the  wood 
in  June  had  come  upon  it  and  spread  the  story,  so 
that  many  went  out  to  see  the  blue  roses,  and  strange 
stories  were  told  of  the  power  that  they  had. 

In  the  royal  palace  there  lived  a  princess  who  dis- 
tinguished herself  from  the  princesses  of  romance  by 
not  being  at  all  beautiful.  This  was  the  harder  upon 
her  because  she  was  a  woman  who  herself  worshipped 
beauty  wherever  she  saw  it  and  of  whatever  kind  it 
might  be.  When  she  was  told  that  a  marriage  had 
been  arranged  and  would  shortly  take  place  between 
herself  and  a  prince  from  a  neighboring  country 
whom  she  had  never  seen  she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  acquiesced.  These  things  were  a  matter  of  state. 
She  would  never  love  the  prince,  and  her  mirror  told 
her  that  he  would  never  love  her,  but  the  succession 
would  be  secured. 

Now,  as  it  chanced,  this  prince,  though  not  other- 
wise notable,  was  an  extremely  beautiful  young  man 
and  fully  conscious  of  it.  He  spent  much  time  and 

328 


BLUE  ROSES  329 

trouble  on  his  dress  and  his  adornment.  He  looked 
like  the  very  picture  of  a  prince  always.  He  also  had 
recognized  that  the  marriage  was  one  of  interest  and 
expediency,  and  when  he  saw  the  little  plain  woman 
who  was  to  be  his  wife  he  was  quite  polite  and  fasci- 
nating in  his  manners.  He  did  not  grumble.  He  was 
not  recalcitrant.  At  the  same  time  he  was  not  in  the 
least  in  love  with  her.  This  was  entirely  as  she  had 
expected.  The  really  serious  trouble  was  that  she  fell 
very  much  in  love  with  him.  So  much  so  that  she 
annoyed  the  king,  her  father,  and  the  ministers  on 
whose  counsel  he  relied  by  saying  that,  come  what 
might,  even  if  she  never  married  at  all,  she  should  not 
marry  this  prince. 

"What  have  you  against  him?"  the  king  asked. 

The  princess  laughed.  Pressed  further,  she  would 
only  repeat  with  obstinacy  that  she  would  not  marry 
him. 

The  natural  effect  of  this  was  to  make  everybody 
extremely  disagreeable  to  her.  All  who  had  the  right, 
and  some  who  had  not,  spoke  at  large  on  the  subject 
of  duty.  So  the  princess  kept  out  of  the  way,  in  her 
own  apartments  or  wandering  in  the  wood  by  the  pal- 
ace. And  sometimes  she  wept.  And  sometimes  she 
painted  from  memory  a  portrait  of  the  prince  who 
loved  her  not.  For  a  princess  she  painted  rather  well. 

One  day,  as  she  sat  in  her  apartments,  she  heard 
a  young  page  beneath  the  window  speaking  to  his  fel- 
lows and  saying  that  as  he  passed  through  the  wood  he 
had  seen  the  blue  roses.  Then  the  stories  that  she  had 
heard  of  them  came  back  to  her  mind,  and  all  unat- 
tended she  went  out  into  the  wood.  Long  was  her 
search,  but  it  was  rewarded  in  the  end.  Deep  in  a 
shadowed  place  far  from  the  track  she  saw  the  intense 


330         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

blue  of  the  strange  roses,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  bush 
she  sat  and  rested  and  thought  for  a  while. 

Then  timorously  she  plucked  the  petals  from  one  of 
the  roses  and  ate  them,  and  their  taste  seemed  to  be  at 
first  sweet  and  afterwards  very  bitter.  Having  done 
this  she  lay  down  at  full  length  waiting  to  see  whether 
the  strange  story  of  the  blue  roses  was  true,  or  whether 
perhaps  the  petals  might  be  poisonous,  or  whether  they 
might  have  no  power  at  all  over  her.  And  very  soon 
she  slept. 

In  her  sleep  she  was  still  herself,  but  she  had  become 
very  beautiful,  so  that  it  was  a  delight  to  her  to  see 
her  own  face  in  a  mirror  or  in  a  clear  stream.  And 
she  knew  that  on  the  morrow  she  was  to  wed  the 
prince.  And  he  came  to  her  with  love  in  his  eyes, 
love  in  his  words,  so  that  for  the  first  time  she  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  ignorant  whether  to  yield  or  to  re- 
sist. As  he  kissed  her  she  awoke  again. 

Now  the  sunlight  had  found  out  the  corner  where 
she  lay  and  shone  hot  upon  her.  The  blue  roses  had 
done  their  work  and  she  had  known  love.  Then  she 
thought  to  herself  of  the  bitterness  of  going  on  for 
the  rest  of  her  life  without  it,  and  she  took  out  her 
dagger  and  cut  down  that  rose  bush  and  tore  out  the 
roots  of  it,  that  no  one  else  might  suffer  as  she  suf- 
fered. 

After  that  she  lived  for  quite  a  long  time,  rather 
bad-tempered  and  slightly  addicted  to  good  works,  but 
the  blue  roses  are  happily  lost  to  us. 


XV 
THE  STREET  OF  PERIL 


THERE  was  in  the  old  days  a  king  who  had  a  very 
beautiful  daughter.  It  is  to  be  remarked  that  in  the 
old  days  all  the  kings  had  very  beautiful  daughters. 
This  should  form  the  subject  of  a  Royal  Commission. 

As  I  was  just  going  to  say,  when  I  started  to  think 
about  something  else,  the  name  of  the  very  beautiful 
daughter  of  this  king  was  the  Princess  Caramel. 

Her  father  adored  her,  and  had  the  highest  possible 
opinion  of  her.  It  is  quite  possible  to  adore  people 
without  having  any  opinion  of  them  at  all.  But  the 
king  did  not  do  this.  He  considered  the  Princess 
Caramel  to  be  the  perfect  woman.  He  wondered  how 
he  was  to  find  any  man  who  would  be  half  good  enough 
to  marry  her.  The  thought  of  this  used  to  keep  him 
awake  at  night.  He  would  say  to  his  courtiers :  "The 
Princess  Caramel  has  the  most  superb  beauty,  but  she 
also  has  the  highest  ability  and  the  finest  character." 

And  then  the  courtiers  would  yawn  and  say  they 
had  noticed  it  themselves. 


II 

The  trouble  that  the  kings  of  fable  had  in  selecting 
husbands   for  their  very  beautiful  daughters  should 


332         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

engage  the  attention  of  the  Psychical  Research  So- 
ciety. 

One  day  the  king  entered  the  apartments  of  the 
Princess  Caramel,  and  spake  as  follows: 

"My  dearest  child,  lying  awake  upon  my  bed,  I  de- 
vised a  test  by  which  I  might  tell  if  any  man  were  fit 
to  have  the  high  honor  of  being  your  husband.  I 
have  now  under  process  of  construction  a  street  which 
shall  be  called  the  Street  of  Peril.  It  will  be  one  mile 
in  length,  and  it  will  contain  all  the  temptations  of 
which  the  professors  of  iniquity  can  bethink  them- 
selves. The  man  who  can  make  the  passage  of  that 
street  in  anything  under  twenty  minutes  will  be  as 
gold  that  has  been  tried  in  the  furnace.  He  shall  be 
your  husband." 

"Thanks  so  much,  papa,"  said  the  princess.  But, 
privily,  she  took  her  own  dispositions. 

So  the  street  was  built  and  furnished.  It  was  full 
of  allurement  and  perfume.  Delirious  and  gambling 
games  went  on  there,  and  the  aspirant  had  to  pass  the 
tables  of  pochre  and  orchshun  and  znooka.  There 
were  also  musicians  with  pipe  and  tabor.  (The  dif- 
ference between  a  tabor  and  a  tambourine  is  not  worth 
mentioning.)  There  were  dancing  girls  of  surpassing 
beauty  and  excessive  amiability.  There  were  tables 
spread  with  the  richest  and  most  enticing  banquets, 
and,  be  it  noted,  the  young  aspirant  had  to  enter  the 
street  fasting. 


in 


Precisely  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  aspirant 
entered  the  Street  of  Peril.    At  the  other  end  of  the 


THE  STREET  OF  PERIL  333 

street  waited  the  king  with  his  stop-watch  in  his  hand, 
and  the  band  of  the  Striped  Hungarians. 

When,  as  always  happened,  at  the  end  of  twenty 
minutes  the  aspirant  had  not  appeared,  and  telephoned 
that  he  was  detained  by  a  fog  in  the  City,  the  band  of 
the  Striped  Hungarians  would  play  the  melody  of  a 
song  which  was  to  the  effect  that  there  was  another 
good  man  who  had  gone  wrong. 

The  Street  of  Peril  became  popular.  "To  show 
oneself  worthy  of  the  Princess  Caramel"  became  a 
synonym  for  moral  degradation,  just  as  "I  apply  for 
the  Chiltern  Hundreds"  means  "Can  I  have  a  peerage, 
please  ?" 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  no  one  had  succeeded  in 
making  the  passage  of  the  Street  of  Peril  in  the  pre- 
scribed time.  And  the  king,  who  was  not  so  young  as 
he  had  formerly  been,  fell  very  sick. 


IV 

As  he  lay  a-dying  he  called  his  daughter  to  him. 

"Caramel,  I  have  done  you  a  great  and  grievous 
wrong.  I  have  required  perfection  for  you,  and  there 
is  no  perfection  in  this  world.  Therefore  my  shy  wild- 
rose  has  been  left  to  fade  upon  her  stem,  so  to  speak." 

"I  look  all  right  by  artificial  light,"  said  the  princess 
modestly. 

"While  I  searched  in  vain  for  perfection,  your  life 
was  left  without  joy  or  savor,  ascetic,  and  cloistral." 

"Not  entirely,  dear  papa." 

"How  mean  you?" 

"Well,  when  you  told  me  that  you  had  devised  this 


334        STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

Street  of  Peril,  by  bribery  and  corruption  I  arranged 
certain  matters  with  the  professors  of  iniquity.    And, 
not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  for  the  last  ten 
years  I  have  been  one  of  the  temptations." 
The  king  died  immediately. 


XVI 
THE  CURATE,  THE  BOY,  AND  THE  BEE 

THE  bee  lay  dead  on  the  gravel  path  just  outside  the 
patent  hive.  The  curate,  who  never  missed  the  chance 
of  an  object  lesson,  called  attention  to  it. 

"See,"  he  said  to  the  boy  whom  it  was  his  pleasure 
and  duty  to  instruct,  "here  lies  this  poor  little  insect, 
its  life-work  done,  its  task  accomplished." 

The  boy  looked  at  it  stolidly.  He  was  a  bullet- 
headed  boy,  with  spectacles,  and  a  nasty  German  habit 
of  taking  nothing  for  granted. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "in  a  garden  there's  a  lot  of 
that  kind  of  thing  about.  A  bit  further  up  the  path 
there  is  a  black  slug.  I  pulped  his  head  with  my  heel 
as  we  passed.  So  his  life's  work's  done  and  his  task 
accomplished.  There's  a  dead  chrysanthemum.  More 
life-work  and  task  as  per  schedule." 

"Gently,  George,"  said  the  curate,  "gently.  You 
are  going  on  too  fast.  Your  analogies  are  incorrect. 
The  slug  does  harm ;  the  bee  does  good.  The  chrysan- 
themum has  never  worked;  the  bee  is  always  busy. 
You  may  remember  how  this  fact  impressed  the  great 
Watts.  He  noticed  how  the  little  busy  bee  improved 
each  shining  hour,  and  gathered  honey  all  the  day 
from  every •" 

"Half-speed  astern,"  said  the  boy.  "Steady  your 
horses.  Put  in  the  reverse.  That  somewhat  spavined 
argument  ought  not  to  be  worked  any  longer.  All  the 

335 


336         STORIES  WITHOUT  TEARS 

slug  cares  for  is  to  get  something  to  eat,  and  that  is 
all  the  bee  cares  for.  The  fact  that,  unless  some 
thoughtful  boy  happens  to  pulp  their  heads,  slugs  feed 
on  strawberries  and  lettuces,  does  not  affect  the  argu- 
ment. Bees  would  feed  on  strawberries  and  lettuces  if 
they  did  not  prefer  honey." 

"One  moment,"  said  the  curate,  triumphant.  "An- 
swer me  this  question.  Does  the  slug  exercise  fore- 
sight, does  the  slug  lay  up  a  store  of  honey  for  itself  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  boy.  "The  slug  does  not  lay  up  a 
store  of  honey.  Neither  does  it  lay  up  a  store  of  dog 
biscuits.  Neither  does  it  lay  up  a  store  of  anything 
else.  The  reason  is  simple.  There  is  always  food  for 
it.  If  it  went  into  the  warehouse  business  like  the 
bee,  it  would  show  not  foresight,  but  extreme  folly." 

"You  must  admit,  at  any  rate,  that  the  bee  shows 
extreme  wisdom.  Could  you  build  one  of  those 
waxen  cells?" 

"I  hate  cells,  anyhow,"  said  the  boy.  "That  is  why 
I  cannot  consent  to  have  the  wisdom  of  the  bee  played 
upon  me.  It's  fool  enough  to  go  into  a  patent  hive, 
and  sweat  its  life  out  at  rilling  up  sections  with  honey, 
which  sections  it  will  never  keep,  since  they  will  be 
taken  out  of  the  hive  and  sold  for  a  shilling  apiece, 
or  more  if  you  have  luck.  The  bee  has  no  wish  to 
benefit  humanity  at  all.  When  humanity  sneaks  the 
honey  it  has  to  wear  a  veil  and  thick  gloves.  The  bee 
merely  benefits  humanity  by  being  a  stupendous  idiot." 

"Hush,"  said  the  curate.  "Men  far  better  and  wiser 
than  you  are,  or  perhaps  ever  will  be,  have  admired 
the  wisdom  and  industry  of  the  bee."  He  picked  up 
the  dead  insect  and  laid  it  on  the  palm  of  his  fat  hand. 
"I  am  humble  enough  to  say  that  I  wish  that  I  myself 
were  more  like  this  little  insect." 


THE  CURATE,  THE  BOY,  THE  BEE     337 

"But  you  are,"  said  the  boy.    "Exactly  like  it." 

"I  fear  not,"  said  the  curate,  with  a  gratified  smile. 

"I  try  to  do  my  work,  but  every  now  and  then  there 

are  hours  of  laziness  which " 

"I  don't  mean  that  at  all,"  said  the  boy.     "What 

you  haven't  noticed  is  that  this  particular  bee  happens 

to  be  a  drone.    Now  let's  go  and  play  tennis." 


XVII 
GEORGE 

"HE  is  a  remarkably  plain  young  man,"  she  wrote  in 
her  diary  the  first  day  she  met  him.  "He  has  rather 
an  interesting  face,"  she  said  to  her  mamma  a  month 
later,  as  she  decked  her  apricot-colored  tea-gown 
with  the  William-Allen-Richardsons  that  he  had  just 
sent  her. 

When  she  wrote  to  her  best  friend  to  give  the  news 
of  her  engagement  she  expressed  herself  thus:  "He 
has  not  the  regular- featured  dollish  good  looks  which 
I  have  always  hated  in  men.  He  has  a  strong,  char- 
acterful face  and  magnificent  eyes." 

"You  loveliest  one!"  she  sighed,  as  she  poured  out 
his  tea  at  the  third  breakfast  of  the  honeymoon.  "I 
could  sit  and  look  at  you  for  ever." 

Six  months  later,  when  the  other  man  had  come 
along,  she  observed  to  her  husband:  "I  don't  know 
whether  you're  aware  of  it,  George,  but  your  hair's 
getting  most  frightfully  thin  on  the  top,  and  you're 
just  about  the  last  man  in  the  universe  that  can  afford 
to  go  bald." 

A  man's  looks  must  not  be  judged  by  appearances. 


XVIII 
PULL  THE  RIGHT  STRING 

THE  great  man  had  a  well-salaried  berth  at  his- dis- 
posal. It  was  a  comfortable  berth.  The  man  who  got 
it  was  likely  to  go  short  of  nothing  except  work. 

Jones  had  really  deserved  it.  The  great  man,  in 
considering  Jones's  application,  admitted  to  himself 
that  the  claim  was  well  founded. 

Brown's  testimonials  were  magnificent,  and  he  sent 
them  in.  The  great  man  said  that  he  had  never  seen 
better  testimonials. 

Smith  had  no  testimonials,  had  deserved  nothing, 
and  was  otherwise  unsuitable.  But  Smith  had  a  little 
talk  with  the  great  man's  wife. 

Smith  got  that  berth. 

My  poor  friends,  it  is  not  politeness  to  the  paying 
cashier  which  will  arrange  the  overdraft. 

Go  straight  for  the  inner  office. 


339 


XIX 

TOO  MUCH   SELF-HELP 

THE  Editor,  having  come  to  the  conclusion  that  his 
paper  needed  to  be  livened  up,  put  on  his  hat  and  went 
round  to  the  Employment  Agency. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Agency,"  he  said.  "I  want 
you  to  find  me  a  young  man  who  can  write  really 
smart  paragraphs." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Agency  as  he  booked  the 
order.  "We've  got  four  hundred  and  eighty  of  them 
on  our  books.  I'll  send  a  few  dozen  of  the  best  round 
to  your  office  this  afternoon  and  you  can  pick  one. 
That  do?" 

"Nicely,"  said  the  Editor,  and  rose  to  go,  when  he 
remembered  something.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I 
also  want  a  boy  who  can  be  trusted  to  take  charge  of 
the  stamps  and  petty  cash." 

Then  Mr.  Agency  threw  down  his  pen.  He  did  not 
book  that  order.  He  gave  a  sigh  like  a  high-power 
suction-pump.  "Do  you?"  he  said  in  a  melancholy 
voice.  "Well,  if  you  find  two,  save  one  for  me.  I 
want  one  myself." 

Oh,  my  poor  friends  who  are  trying  to  be  cleverer 
than  you  are,  remember  that  the  world  also  wants 
honest  men. 

And,  as  things  stand  at  present,  Patent  Tills  with 
the  Unmonkeyable  Lock  are  a  better  market  than  Brain 
Fertilizers  containing  Free  Phosphorus. 

340 


XX 

NOT  IMPERVIOUS  TO  DAMP 

THE  pretty  suffragette  made  a  long,  convincing  speech, 
filled  with  historical  allusions,  a  quart  of  best  mixed 
statistics,  and  a  nice  peroration,  all  made  to  wind  up. 
A  report  of  that  speech  appeared  in  a  daily  paper  which 
had  been  disappointed  of  a  company  prospectus,  and 
consequently  had  space  to  fill. 

Mr.  Average  came  home  from  the  City,  read  that 
daily  paper  till  he  came  to  the  report  of  that  speech, 
and  nearly  went  past  Surbiton,  which  is  where  he  lives. 

A  few  days  later  the  pretty  suffragette  accompanied 
by  friends  went  out  to  make  trouble.  They  made  it. 
The  pretty  suffragette  managed  to  create  a  riot,  and 
slapped  a  good-tempered,  mutton-fed  policeman  on  the 
nose. 

"And  she'd  jolly  well  get  six  months  hard  for  that 
if  I  were  the  magistrate,"  growled  Mr.  Average. 

And  then  the  pretty  suffragette,  pleading  in  court 
in  her  defense,  broke  down  and  wept  bitterly.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  was  a  woman. 

Mr.  Average  read  all  about  it  and  was  conscious  of 
a  sense  of  discomfort.  "Oh,  take  and  give  her  the 
silly  old  vote  if  she  wants  it,"  he  said,  feeling  vaguely 
ashamed. 

Pause  before  you  smile  at  Mr.  Average. 

The  strictly  logical  mind  is  one  of  the  few  things 
in  this  world  that  cannot  be  produced  by  Chemistry 
out  of  Coal-tar. 

Inconsistency  does  not  necessarily  hurt.  The  Brit- 
ish Constitution  is  founded  on  it. 


University  of  California 

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